Bloodsport
by girlinshipwreck
Summary: When Vivien loses all she holds dear, she is forced to fight for survival in a place where death is life and civilization has become a myth. But when she crosses paths with Rick Grimes, she discovers she's not the only one cast adrift by a cruel world. {AU}.
1. To Cross The Divide

**Author's Note: **_Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under __**girlinashipwreck**_

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><p><strong>To Cross The Divide<strong>

_"I'm not leaving you behind!"_

_"I'll find you again, I promise! Just go!" - _

Vivien jolted awake, her breath coming in huge gasps, the ridges of her braid digging into her scalp. For a long moment she just lay there, staring up at the swirling patterns on the ceiling, the dream slipping through her fingers like sand. From the other side of the door, a dead hand turned the handle, the action almost hesitant, almost human. Vivien curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her head, trying to block out the sound, closing her eyes so she didn't have to see it. Nowhere was safe, not anymore.

At first Vivien used to study the carcass-cleaners with an odd wonder, watching with fascinated horror as they waited for buses that would never come, their rotting hands clutching coffee they would never drink, all echoes of a life no longer theirs. But now she didn't care. In a way, she was the same as them, still clinging to the ghost of who she was. The only difference between her and them was a beating heart. But one day she would be like them, out there, wandering what used to be.

She sat up, trying not to think of Doc, where he could be, if he was even still alive. The door handle continued to twist and turn, becoming more frenzied with every passing second, but she forced herself to ignore it. _Food first, then I'll flee_. She hadn't killed any of them yet. She knew it was a stupid attitude to take during the apocalypse, but she just couldn't. But as each day passed, she'd become that little bit more detached from the dead, no longer seeing them for who they were but what they'd become.

Vivien picked up her crowbar, weighing its murderous potential in her palm. It would only be a matter of time before she stopped running and start killing instead. After becoming separated from Doc, it had been sink or swim time. She'd tried to keep track of where she was so she could stay close to where Doc had been, but the dead had quickly driven her from the area, making her move on.

Forcing herself to face reality, she'd kicked in the door of a garden shed, stealing a crowbar so she would have something to break into houses and defend herself with. But living was harder than dying, and now she was in a home that wasn't hers, refusing to face the fact this was her life now, that she was more or less on her own. The world she'd left behind had fallen into fragments in her absence and now there was nothing left to fight for.

_And you'll be lost_  
><em>Every river that you tried to cross<em>  
><em>Every gun you ever held went off<em>  
><em>Oh and I'm just waiting 'til the firing's stopped<em>

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><p>Vivien threw the tin of <em>B &amp; M Brick Oven Baked Beans<em> aside, watching it arc across the floorboards, before rolling to a halt. She wanted proper British baked beans, the memory of beans on toast making her nostalgic, but this wasn't England and this wasn't home. Sighing heavily, she got to her feet, snatching up her crowbar as she went. In a few quick strides she was at the window, pulling the curtains aside. She checked for them but the backyard was clear - for now.

Taking her chance, she quickly flung up the sash and climbed out of the window, only to batter her head off the frame in the process. Choking down a curse, she crept through the waist-high weeds, past the laundry still hanging out to dry and made for the wall. She hoisted herself up, just as she did when she'd been a child, and sat astride the brick as though on a horse, surveying her surroundings. The streets were empty, rows and rows of houses as far the eye could see, easy pickings for the plucking if the dead weren't moving into the neighbourhood.

For a moment, she surrendered to the suspicions that stalked her heart, thoughts that turned the day dark. _They're here because of me, their bloodsport._ She swung her legs over the side of the wall before dropping down onto the sidewalk, landing like a cat on the concrete. Then she was running as fast as her feet could carry her

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><p>Everything was unnaturally still and silent, the air heavy with death, the sun relentlessly beating down on Vivien's bare head. A crow took flight from the roof of the ruined building looming in front of her, the beat of its wings breaking the silence. With some trepidation, she edged further and further into the hospital car park, creeping round the corner of the guard booth, fingers tightening around her crowbar as she moved. Then her foot slipped out from under her, and she was falling, falling, body slamming into concrete.<p>

When she rolled onto her side, it was only to find herself face to face with the remnants of a soldier's head, the top of his skull blown off, blood and brains splattering the shoulders of his military fatigues and asphalt. Almost vomiting, she unsteadily stood up, only to find herself caught up in some crazy cavalcade; cars, military trucks, army jeeps, ambulances, even a fire engine, all just lying abandoned. As she made her way forwards, the chaos just continued, her disbelieving eyes taking in the sight of the rows and rows of bodies wrapped in white sheets, blood staining the fabric like sunbursts.

Some bodies weren't wrapped up at all, others not wrapped up enough, their heads poking out of the top, bare feet exposed. She was surrounded by the dead on all sides. No matter what direction she turned, they were there, the stench of their rotting remains almost overwhelming her. The ones that weren't wrapped up held her horrified fascination captive the most, their ravaged faces reminding her all too well of a world now gone.

Then her gaze fell upon a small girl, her long fair hair matted with blood. For a moment it was her daughter lying there, and something inside Vivien finally snapped. She careened away from the bodies, the relentless buzzing of flies feeding off flesh drilling into her skull. She lurched along the rows, clamping her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Her feet stumbled to a halt in front of what had been a woman, her face rotting, rendering her features beyond recognition, blood encrusting her caramel coloured hair. The right hand side of her cranium was missing, exposing what was left of her brain, and that's when Vivien finally threw up, hurling all over the tarmac.

As her stomach heaved, the smell of vomit and decomposing flesh making her gag all over again, she collapsed down onto the ground, head spinning. The heat was becoming unbearable, sweat dripping down the back of her neck, soaking her underarms. Vivien slumped against the side of a garish yellow car, a tear rolling down her face, followed by another, then another, and she buried her face in her hands, trying to muffle her sobs in case they heard.

Vivien sat there for a while, hunched against the side of the car, hopelessly hoping against hope for hope, the rest of her on high alert for carcass-cleaners. Then she got to her feet, legs still shaking with shock. As she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, they staggered into view on the not so far horizon, the deep blue sky forming a dramatic backdrop, life framing death. Their presence only served to emphasize the precariousness of her situation, so she moved, pulling the neckline of her jumper over her nose, before heading round the side of the building in the hope that was where the entrance was.

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><p>Vivien crept through the debris and dead, hiding behind vehicles, second-guessing every step she took. Parts of the building had caved in, the brickwork blackened by smoke, with wires exposed and windows blown out. She rounded a corner, only to be confronted by the sight of a fire-exit door lying open. Vivien swallowed hard, her nerve going. But she knew there could be a treasure trove of supplies inside; food, water, medicine, maybe even a weapon. But still she faltered.<p>

Taking a deep breath, her grip tightening around her crowbar, she moved forwards, hastily bypassing the three deep piles of bodies dumped unceremoniously next to the rubbish bins. She jogged up the steps of the platform leading up to the fire exit, kicking aside the autumn leaves as she went, the metal clanging under her feet. Taking another deep breath, she then forced herself to step into the darkness, letting go of the neckline of her jumper. Thinking of the carcass-cleaners outside, Vivien closed the door behind her, cutting off the light.

Like a fool, she just stood there, heart hammering in her chest. It was if she was trapped in the heart of a terrible void, with no way out, only an endless maze in front of her. The panic boiled over and she bolted forwards, only to smack her forehead off the wall, nearly knocking herself out. Clutching her head like a moron, she turned wildly in all directions, her breath suddenly very loud in the darkness, the sound reaching inhuman proportions as it echoed around the walls. Then she crashed into a railing, her foot connecting with a step. _I'm in a stairwell; I'm in an effing stairwell._

She forced herself to move forwards, her hand fumbling for the rail again. She took one step at a time, trying to be careful, trying to keep calm, but when her foot hit flat ground instead of another step, she staggered and tripped, almost falling onto her face again. She let go of the railing for a moment, trying to work out where she was, whether she was on some sort of landing or if she'd reached the top.

Unable to decide, Vivien started blundering about again, colliding with what seemed to be a never-ending series of walls, until she found where the railing started again. She clung to it desperately; greeting it almost like it was an old friend. Her foot found the next step, and then she was moving upwards again, tripping and stumbling, holding onto the handrail for dear life.

But the darkness was disorientating, the silence overwhelming, and she had to clench her teeth or she'd end up collapsing and crying like a baby again. She kept thinking something was going to grab her hand or foot, the fear slowing her down, making her move at a snail's pace, even though she wanted to run, to just get the hell out of there. But if she did, she'd end up breaking her neck, becoming what she was trying to survive.

Her feet hit flat ground again, but this time Vivien was prepared. She just kept going forwards, hands outstretched, searching for the railing or a door handle, before her palms spectacularly collided with wood. She slumped against the door, frantically trying to find the handle, only to batter her knuckles off it. But she passed over the pain, her desperate fingers turning the handle. The door clicked as she pulled it open, light flooding the stairwell, blinding her. She threw herself through the doorway, panting heavily, before collapsing against a wall, shielding her eyes with her arm, trying to calm herself down.

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><p>After a minute or so, Vivien dared to lower her arms, her eyes adjusting to the light. She was in a corridor, an abandoned wheelchair lying on its side by some lift doors further down. The sight of it made her stomach turn, but she steeled herself, forcing one foot in front of the other, the soles of her trainers squeaking with every step she took, each one taking her deeper and deeper into the unknown.<p>

Sweat dripped down her spine as she stumbled down corridor after corridor, turning endless corners into even more endless corridors which were lit in patches or plunged into night in others. It felt like she was caught between two worlds, making her wonder if she'd died after all, and she just didn't know it yet; that this was her hell. Then the corridors started to merge into one, the floors strewn with rubbish and paper, mingling with broken wall and abandoned medical equipment.

Vivien kept walking, once again feeling like she was in some sort of nightmarish maze, the panic bubbling in her chest afresh. But as she turned another corner, the landscape changed. Bullet holes start appearing, forming an erratic dancing pattern over the background of the bland decor, accompanied by bloodstains that had dripped down the cheap plaster, pooling into dark sticky puddles on the floor. It was like a breadcrumb trail, leading her thoughts to the bodies outside, her stomach starting to turn again.

Vivien rounded yet another corner before emerging into a corridor that split in two, the left hand side stretching into the dark distance, the right hand side turning in an almost curve, the lights flickering on and off as an odd hum permeated the air, sounding the death knell of the emergency generators. She moved forwards a fraction, her heart jumping into her throat as her gaze fell upon the half eaten remains of a young woman lying on the ground further down the right hand side corridor.

The young woman was dressed in blue tie-dyed rags that may have once been a dress, her middle exposed, almost gone, revealing her ribs. Her arms had been reduced to bone and muscle, but as Vivien edged closer, she saw the face was almost intact, the delicate features framed by fair hair pulled back into a messy bun, pale eyes wide and staring, almost searching Vivien's soul. Again, there was another abandoned wheelchair lying nearby, and Vivien wondered if it had belonged to the young woman.

Vivien buried her nose in the crook of her arm, the smell of rotting flesh becoming too much to bear. As she stumbled to a stop in front of the body, half expecting it to spring to life, she studied the young woman, trying not to imagine the terror of her last moments, how this could have so easily been her. Then the young woman's eyes suddenly and slowly blinked, making Vivien scream, completely losing her head. She flung herself backwards, spine striking wall, the crowbar clattering to the floor, the young woman's head turning almost mechanically at the sound, her bony fingers flexing like she was trying them out for the first time.

The movement made Vivien move. Already she could feel her flesh being torn open. She slid her back along the wall, her eyes staring out of her head as the young woman slowly raised her hand, silently asking Vivien to cross the divide between life and death and bring her home. Vivien forced herself to focus on the door up ahead; that was her escape, her way out -

The door rattled violently, almost coming off its hinges. Vivien screamed again, throwing her head back as her body jerked against the wall, shock shooting through her veins. Then she slumped downwards, like somebody had cut her strings. Tears blurred her eyes, but not enough to blot out the dark outline of a figure standing behind the glass window of the door, its hands raised like Nosferatu's.

Then the flickering light threw the figure into relief, and she saw that it was a man, a man who was very much alive. Vivien exhaled sharply before slumping further down the wall, all life leaving her limbs. The man started frantically pounding the glass with his fists. She held up her shaking hands to signal it was alright, to stop banging. He faltered, hesitating, before finally resting his palms against the glass, the gesture almost imploring.

"Please help me!" he called, the harsh antebellum burr of his accent half muffled by the door.

Vivien stared at him. It had been so long since she'd heard another human voice, only the whispers of the dead.

"Please!" he shouted this time, beginning to bang on the glass again. "Please help me!"

She put her finger to her lips, hastily hushing him with her other hand as she nervously looked behind her, wishing he would just shut the hell up.

"Please!"

Vivien staggered to her feet, silently cursing the man. _Doesn't he know he's going to bring the dead down on us? _She half stumbled, half rushed down the rest of the corridor, bursting through the door, nearly hitting the man, who had to dive out of the way, grabbing his side as he did so. She quickly shoved the door shut, before peering through the glass, half expecting to see the young woman gliding over the ground towards them like a ghost in a story, the thought making Vivien shiver despite the heat. But the young woman remained where she lay, her hand now stretched in the direction of the door, fingers curling into claws.

Vivien turned around, unable to bear the sight anymore, her gaze locking with the man's instead. He just stared at her, his grey eyes wide and frightened, almost disbelieving. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, plastering his dark hair to his head, the soft curls greasy and unkempt. His features had a carved quality to them, something of kindness adding character to his bearded face, softening the strong curve of his jaw and the prominent beakiness of his nose.

He was barely dressed, only wearing a blue and white checked, almost tartan-like, hospital gown that hung off his frame, exposing his hairy chest and the bandage wrapped around his middle, holding padding in place. Vivien glanced at his wound, uneasily wondering if they were responsible for it. Her gaze then drifted over the rest of him, noting his blue boxer shorts, the loose baggy fabric emphasizing the scrawniness of his thin legs. He had a name tag around his wrist and a box of matches in his hand.

The man studied Vivien in turn, brow furrowing, Vivien realising he was wondering if he could trust her or not. There was something almost coldly methodical in his appraisal of her, like he was gathering evidence at a crime-scene. For a moment she saw herself through his eyes, a tallish girl with long jet black hair bound in a messy braid, all ripped jeans and attitude problem. _Not exactly somebody to inspire confidence then._

"Is - is she okay?" the man said stupidly, pointing past Vivien at the young woman trying to reach them.

"She's dead," Vivien said bluntly.

"What?" he exclaimed, backing away from her, stuffing the box of matches into the waistband of his boxers, as though she was going to steal them. _As if. _"She's - she's not dead! How can she be dead? She's moving for God's sake! She needs help! Why don't you help her!? You're a nurse, aren't you!?"

"Me? A nurse?!" Vivien snorted. "I'm a toilet attendant, pal!"

The man didn't say anything. He just stood there, twisting his hands, his eyes darting between her and the young woman, like he was watching a tennis match at Wimbledon. Vivien nervously gnawed on her thumbnail, not sure what she should do next. She hadn't bargained on this, on him being completely ignorant of the way the world was now.

"What's... what's with you then?" Vivien stuttered, gesturing vaguely to his wound, wanting to know how he got it. "How did you end up in this shit-hole?"

The man's eyes scrunched up, like he was trying not to cry. "I was shot," he said, lower lip trembling. "Must have fell into a coma. Don't know how long for though. Then - then I woke up. Wandered about the corridors but nobody was there, no doctors, no patients, no one. Then I heard you scream..."

"And here we are," Vivien said dryly, trying to hide her panic with false poise.

"But what... what happened?" the man asked, voice cracking. "Where is everybody? Was there a terrorist attack? Has the hospital been evacuated? Was it too dangerous to move me or something?" He gazed at Vivien, eyes pleading, silently asking her to give him an answer she couldn't give; to tell him everything was alright, happy endings all round. But she didn't know what was happening herself. She'd been flung headfirst into this hell and had been wandering blind ever since, losing all that she had along the way.

The man inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. Then his gaze fell upon the young woman who was now trying and failing to sit up. He stared at her in disbelief, his face contorting in terror. "Why don't you help her?" he shouted, tears springing to his eyes as he angrily jabbed a finger in the young woman's direction. "Why - why are you just standing there, doing - doing nothing, man!?"

Vivien flew at him, clamping her hand over his mouth. "Keep your voice down," she hissed. "There could be more of them walking about in here."

His eyes widened at her words, Vivien removing her hand from his mouth, suddenly feeling very tired. But he backed away from her, his hospital gown trailing after him. "You're - you're mad," he said, shaking his head. "How can the _dead_ be _alive?_"

"Look, pal," Vivien retorted, getting angry now, "quit the broken record routine, alright? The dead are walking, get over it."

A tear rolled down his face, the sight striking Vivien with sudden contrition. "I'm sorry, I really am," she pleaded, "but you have to believe me. This is really happening. The dead really are walking."

But he just shook his head again, before turning away from her, his fingers fumbling for the door handle, for escape. Vivien dived forwards, grabbing his wrist, trying to haul him back. He tried to shake her off, but she just held on even tighter. It was odd, but his presence was making her focus, purpose replacing panic.

"Let go of me!" he screamed before shouting for help, help that would never come.

Vivien tried to clamp her hand over his mouth again, before giving up and trying to pull him away from the door instead, but despite the two of them not exactly being in tip-top condition, the man was bigger and stronger, and he suddenly broke free of her grip. Before Vivien could blink, he was pulling the door open, slipping like a snake through the narrow gap it afforded, before slamming the door in her face.

She tried to turn the handle so she could go after him, but he was holding it fast on the other side. So she started pushing the door, trying to shoulder it open. But he just started doing the same thing, and after a few moments of futile struggle, she slumped sideways against the wood, still holding onto the handle, determined to the last. And like her, he still held onto it as well, staring at her through the glass like she was insane.

Something inside Vivien snapped, and she suddenly thumped the glass with her fist, making him leap back like a startled hare. Then the anger left as suddenly as it had arrived and she leaned her forehead against the door, closing her eyes as she did so, wondering why she was still here, why she was even bothering. If he didn't want to believe the dead were walking, so be it. She should just cut her losses and go. There was nothing to keep her here, least of all him.


	2. Lux In Tenebris

**Lux In Tenebris **

That's when Vivien heard it, the tell-tale shuffle of them.

She opened her eyes, slowly raising her head, not wanting to look behind her, her gaze falling upon the man instead. He looked as though he was going to piss himself, which only fuelled Vivien's fear even further. He slowly raised a hand, pointing past her head, his face almost imbecilic with terror. Vivien slowly turned around, only to be confronted by the sight of almost seven feet of dead body, literally Lurch in the flesh.

The carcass-cleaner was barely clothed, wearing the tartaned tatters of a hospital gown, his head extraordinarily bald, with ears protruding out from either side of his head in an extraordinary fashion too. Half his face had been torn off, exposing yellowing teeth in a lopsided grimace that made him look like he was half smiling, half sulking. As Vivien's gaze met his white one, he suddenly sprung at her, a terrible cry escaping his cracked lips.

Vivien dived under his outstretched arms, almost into the embrace of the carcass-cleaner behind him instead, a woman with a wild afro. In trying to escape her, Vivien ended up doing a mad twirl. But as she turned, she spun into Lurch, only for him to end up on top of her, teeth snapping at the tip of her ear, rotting hands almost grabbing her - then the man shoved the door open, striking the carcass-cleaner in the side, knocking it off-balance.

As it flailed comically, the other lunging forwards, the man grabbed Vivien by the wrist, hauling her through the narrow gap between door and wall. He slammed the door shut, the glass vibrating in its frame. Then they both screamed like some unholy choir as the woman slammed her face off the still trembling glass over and over again, the other carcass-cleaner pounding the wood with its palms.

Vivien stood there, stricken to her very soul, the man letting go of her wrist, backing away from the door as tiny fissures started to appear in the glass. The sight of it starting to break brought Vivien back to life, making her holler at the man to run, and as they fled, she glanced over her shoulder, wondering how long the door would hold.

The man moved at an odd jerky pace, clutching his bandaged middle as he ran, before faltering to a halt as he drew level with the young woman on the ground. Vivien skidded to a stop beside him, too scared to go on any further, despite the threat behind them. The man stared incredulously at the young woman's mutilated body, his grey eyes widening as her dead fingers clutched at the hem of his hospital gown, her torn mouth opening and closing in silent hunger.

Then he was retreating backwards, tearing his hospital gown out of her grip, shaking his head in disbelief, still trying to deny the truth in front of him. He turned in a half circle, his eyes filling up with tears again, his gaze travelling upwards as though he was asking for divine intervention. Vivien snatched up her lost crowbar, hands shaking as she did so, before inching round the young woman, hissing at the man to hurry up.

The man ran his hand over his face, taking a deep breath before edging past the young woman, glancing over his shoulder as he went, a fresh tear rolling down his cheek. They then headed down the rest of the corridor, Vivien's mind awhirl with chaos. The only thought that stood out with any lucidity was to go back the way she'd came, to somehow lead them out of the hospital, but to her annoyance, the man had other ideas.

He stopped dead, attention caught by the corridor to the left hand side, right in the opposite direction Vivien wanted them to go in. Then he started heading towards the flickering darkness, meandering pitifully towards something only he could see. Vivien followed him against her will, fingers tightening around her crowbar. They crept onwards, Vivien's gaze searching the shadows for them, only seeing destruction, not the dead.

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><p>Rubble littered the floor, a tea-trolley lying abandoned on its side. Plastic seats were lined up against the walls in long empty rows, parts of the air conditioning in the ceiling pulled out, the units hanging precariously from overhead, panels dangling precariously. Like before, there were more bullet holes in the walls and puddles of gore pooling on the ground. Doors leading into wards and waiting rooms had been left ajar as though somebody had just left the vicinity.<p>

They passed through a set of double-doors that were askew on their hinges, approaching with some trepidation an archway of twisted cables and collapsed ceiling, black coils of metal and wire suspended in mid-air, forming an arbour of sorts. They ducked under the worst parts, gazes riveted on a set of grey fronted double doors up ahead, the metal handles bound together by a thick chain and padlock, a short plank of wood wedged through the handles like an extra precaution.

A sign above the doors declared 'CAFETERIA', but written across the doors in black spray-painted letters was the warning 'DON'T OPEN, DEAD INSIDE.' As they drew closer, the sound of the dead singing filled the air, a lament of hunger and torment. Then the doors parted slightly, revealing a sliver of space between them. But the chains choked its progress, the plank of wood jamming the gap from widening any further.

Vivien crept closer, horror becoming overcome by fascination. She wanted to run, but at the same time, she wanted to remain, to edge that little bit further into the unknown. As though sensing her, the dead started to bang the wood in earnest, making the chains rattle in protest, their terrible song increasing in volume. Vivien could almost feel their anger at failing to reach her. But just as she thought this, a pale hand tinged with purple slipped through the sliver of space, its nails long and manicured, the tips filed into perfect half moons. Vivien watched with transfixed terror as its fingers flexed into a claw-like shape, trying to reach for her flesh.

Another hand appeared, the nails rotting, blackened. One fell off as the hand tried to loosen the chains binding the doors together, fingers fumbling with the links as though trying to find the padlock. All fascination faded away, leaving a sickening panic. Vivien had seen the dead exhibit signs of human intelligence before, but for her, this took the biscuit. She was out of her depth here. It was Doc's sphere, not hers.

Vivien backed away. Somehow her hand found the man's hand. As she glanced up at him, she saw he was cringing in terror, shoulders hunched up to his earlobes, staring with bulging eyes at the fingers creeping through the gap like spiders. Denial and fear were written all over his face, obviously trying to convince himself this wasn't real; that it was a nightmare he would wake up from at any moment.

"This is real," Vivien whispered. "It's not a dream."

He looked down at her, a choked sob escaping his throat. Then he tore his hand out of hers, suddenly doing a runner down the corridor, half hunching over as he disappeared around a corner, heading in the opposite direction they'd just come from. Vivien ran after him, trying in vain to reach him before he reached a set of double doors further up ahead, because only God knew what lay behind them. He could be heading right into the heart of hell for all she knew.

But despite his incapacitated state, his head-start gave him the advantage, and he reached the doors before she did, throwing himself through them, hands slapping feebly against the wood as he shoved them open. Then he was staggering away again, disappearing out of sight once more. Vivien reached the doors just as they swung back into position, only managing to stall one door with her hand, the other one striking her in the small of her back, knocking her into the door she was holding fast so she became caught between them like a moron.

Struggling and sore, she finally managed to break free before setting forth again, raising her crow-bar to eye-level, ready to strike as she rounded the corner. But all she saw was the man slumped sideways against the wall between the lifts, frantically pressing the lift button with a desperation that nearly broke her heart. As she approached him, lowering her crowbar as she went, he gave up on the lifts, heading instead towards a door marked 'FIRE EXIT'. With an almost detached air, he pushed the door open, stepping into the darkness beyond without a second thought, making Vivien spring forwards, cursing him.

Throwing herself through the door, it was only to stop short at the sight of the man just standing there on the landing, looking dazzled by the light streaming in from behind her. Then the door slammed shut, plunging them both into darkness. Vivien pressed her back against the wood, trying not to panic, fighting the urge to run back out. As she wrestled with herself, there was the hissing sound of a match being struck, then a small flash illuminating the darkness.

She watched as the man held up his lighted match like a candle, eyes narrowed against the glare of the orange light, Vivien being drawn like a moth to the flame, edging closer and closer, the man glancing her, his face unreadable. But something about the light united them, their faces inching closer and closer to the flickering flame, echoed by the childish fascination flickering in their wide eyes.

As Vivien studied the man studying the light, she realised with some unease she was more fascinated by his fascination with the flame than the flame itself, and she took a step back just as he got too close to the flame, the smoke making him cough. He reeled back, holding the match aloft, far from his face, making Vivien take another step back. It was like a spell that had been broken, Vivien's fascination dissipating in the same fashion, turning into annoyance instead. _It's just one piddly match for God's sake, not a bonfire._

Then he suddenly staggered forwards, nearly falling headfirst down the stairs at he did so. He let out a cry that would have awoke the dead if they weren't up and about already, before performing a spectacular comedy flail, his arms turning into propellers as he waved his hands in a circle through the air, the flame of the match flickering threateningly. Vivien lunged at him, grabbing his arm, yanking him back from the edge. But as she did, he dropped the match, plunging them into darkness again, his hand frantically finding and clutching her arm for comfort.

Vivien froze, the darkness paralyzing her, but she knew they couldn't hang about holding each other like they were about to start singing _Ring a Ring o' Roses_. Then to make everything even better than it was already, the man started to cry, making her heart crack in her chest.

"Hey, it's alright," Vivien cajoled, letting go of his arm so she could pat his wrist instead. But like a scared child, he grabbed her hand for reassurance instead. "Have you still got the other matches?" Vivien whispered, trying to recover control of the situation.

He seemed to nod but she couldn't be sure, since she couldn't see him. It felt like she was talking to a ghost. Then he let go of her before striking another match, the friendly amber light flickering over their faces again.

"Listen to me," Vivien said quickly, "I'm going to get us out of here, okay?" The man nodded, his eyes wide and fearful. "This is the plan, pal," Vivien said, forcing herself to sound forceful and in command, "we keep quiet and we go slowly, one step at a time. No rushing or running or anything and you do exactly what I say if the shit goes down, right?"

He nodded again before placing his free hand against the wall, using the brickwork as a support as he started to slowly go down the steps, faltering on every third one. Vivien clung to the back of his hospital gown, irritated at the lack of stair-rail. It made no sense to have it in one stair-well and not the other, but that was the least of her worries just now. They kept moving, but as they hit the halfway landing, the match went out again.

"It's alright," Vivien said quickly as the man let out a cry of alarm, his whole body tensing up under her fingers, "just light another one, you're doing really well."

He did so before edging forwards again, but then he faltered, raising the match to the ceiling, their gazes following the path of the flame. It illuminated the sign above them, the word "EXIT' written in red capital letters, making the man's face light up pathetically. Vivien was about to roll her eyes and say _duh, _but she saw the way the sign seemed to give him hope, so she didn't.

Then they were moving again, Vivien barely managing to keep up. Their feet hit the bottom step, the match blinking out of life again, but the man didn't bother this time. In fact, he just dropped the rest of the matches, the box hitting the ground, breaking the silence. Then Vivien was pushing open the door, the hinges creaking in protest as they stepped into the outside world.

* * *

><p>Sunlight struck their skin, the air misty and dreamlike, almost blinding them both as it chased away the darkness. Vivien's arm flew up to her face in defence, the man shielding his eyes with his hand. The sound of cicadas singing filled the air, reminding Vivien that life went on regardless of death. They took a few faltering steps forwards, backs hunching against the wall, the sun-baked brick propping them up, the man now holding his own arms up in front of his face like he was trying to fend off attackers.<p>

Vivien's gaze swept over their soulless surroundings, searching in vain for shelter, reluctantly realizing they were all too alone, lost to a lost world. She slowed to a stop, the man slowing at the same time. "I'm not going to re-populate the earth with you by the way," Vivien snapped, scrunching up her eyes as she scowled up into the man's dumbstruck face, "just so you know."

He didn't say anything, but she didn't suppose he could in the face of such virulent rejection.

"Well, giddy up then," she said impatiently to him, tugging on his hospital gown like it was a pair of reins. He just looked at her like she was insane, but he giddied up all the same.

They stumbled down metal steps strewn with dry brittle leaves, before entering some sort of loading dock area, only to find themselves completely surrounded by carnage, corpses littering the ground. The sight made the man falter to a halt. Vivien stood beside him, seeing it through his eyes, life and death dancing the Danse Macabre, the world waltzing to its end.

Like a lost child seeking sanctuary, his hand found and held hers. Then together they traversed the maze of the dead, passing the wreckage of human remains wrapped in greying white sheets, ropes wound round their arms and legs to keep their bloodstained shrouds in place. Some efforts had been made to cover their faces, whilst others had just been left exposed to the elements. They passed trucks loaded with the dead, bodies piled three deep high like firewood. Bits of brick littered the ground alongside limbs, nearly tripping them up at every turn.

Vivien led him past the rest of the bodies on the ground, burying her nose into the crook of her arm as she did so, the man copying her. They kept walking, forcing one foot in front of the other, and then she heard them, their dead cries destroying the silence, Vivien knowing once and for all this is what the rest of their lives would be like, spent on the road, taking the long walk home.

_I get lost all the time_  
><em>In my thoughts, in my mind<em>  
><em>You come through like a light<em>  
><em>In the dark, give me sight...<em>


	3. Lead Me Home

**Lead Me Home**

_Oh Lord live inside me, lead me on my way  
>Oh Lord live inside me, lead me on my way<br>Lead me home  
>Lead me home...<em>

Vivien didn't know far they'd walked, but it felt like forever. They'd left the hospital behind a long time ago, taking one last glance at its blackened sandstone front and windows like broken teeth, before travelling through an impromptu army base filled with more bodies and more abandoned vehicles, Humvees, tanks and helicopters just rusting away into nothing. They'd bypassed khaki coloured tents billowing slightly in the faint breeze, something about their shifting silhouettes striking fear into Vivien's heart, before cutting through a park, the greenery then giving way to concrete, and now here they were, following electricity poles like the Yellow Brick Road.

Vivien had tried to keep count of them, anything to distract herself, but she'd swiftly given it up, letting the man lead the way instead. This was his turf, not hers. All she could do was watch for them, keeping a weather eye open for the first sign of trouble. She wasn't fooled by the silent stillness of their surroundings; she'd seen too many empty streets suddenly become swarmed.

The man suddenly stumbled, but Vivien managed to yank him back up before he did a spectacular face-plant. He hadn't let go of her hand since they'd left the hospital, and she hadn't let go of her crowbar, having more faith in metal than in flesh. She made him sit down on the edge of the sidewalk, watching with a frown as his hand flew to his bandaged middle. His wound was bothering him, even if he hadn't bothered to tell her, perhaps thinking it would bother her. But it was clear as the nose on her face that he was in a lot of pain, their trekking not helping matters any.

They needed a vehicle, but the ones they'd passed were of no use since Vivien didn't know how to hotwire a car, and the man didn't look like the type to know either. She stared down at the top of his curly head, her frown deepening. It wasn't just a vehicle they needed, but medical help as well. But where that miracle was going to come from, she didn't know.

* * *

><p>They walked slowly along the sidewalk, the electricity poles giving way to middle-class suburbia, the life Vivien never had. Her shoulder was wedged under the man's armpit, her arm wrapped carefully around his waist as he leaned on her, making Vivien feel like she'd been turned into a walking stick at the end of the world. She idly mused that it would have been good to be made of wood since it felt like she was melting, the sun now high in the sky, beating relentlessly down on their bare heads like a drum<em>. <em>

Staggering past a metal dustbin knocked over onto its side, its innards spilling out onto the sidewalk, smelling even more awful than they did, they came to a stop at a border of short black wooden posts hammered haphazardly into the ground. Beyond its irregular boundary was a red bike lying on its side amongst the overgrown grass. For a moment, they just stared at it, and then the man suddenly made a beeline for the bike, dragging Vivien along with him in his wake. She pulled herself out of his grip, unable to keep up the pace, shoving him from her, making him stagger sideways.

Unperturbed, he lurched towards his precious two-wheeled prize, Vivien rolling her eyes at his feverish fervour. Peeling off her jumper and knotting it around her waist, she watched as he struggled to lift the bike up by its frame and handles, shaking her head to herself as he did so. It was like a bad joke, the two of them trying to abscond from the apocalypse on the back of a bicycle -

He suddenly screamed, letting go of the bike, his body reeling backwards. As the bike crashed to the ground, Vivien rushed forwards, only to grab the man's arm for support. Lying abandoned in the long grass were the mangled remains of what had been a woman, strands of bloodstained blonde hair clinging to its withered skull. Its skin looked like dried leather, its back flayed and exposed. Stumps of sinew and muscle dangled from its torso, legs ripped off and long lost. The smell of rotting flesh was appalling, making Vivien gag, forcing her to turn away.

"The bike," the man said, voice cracking, "we need the bike."

Vivien exhaled sharply, pulling herself together. Shoving her crowbar into the man's shaking hands, she knelt down and lifted the bike up by its frame, gasping with the effort. She didn't even know why she was bothering, but she supposed a bike was better than nothing. Wherever the man was leading them, she didn't think it was the Promised Land -

Her knees suddenly gave way beneath her, the bike falling with her. But the man caught them both, only to drop the crowbar.

"What's wrong with you?" the man asked, worried. "Are you sick?"

"_I'm_ sick?" Vivien said in disbelief, pulling herself out of his grip, making him stagger slightly

"Where you a patient at the hospital as well?" he said, face curious. Vivien wheeled the bike away from him, trying to put some distance between them. "If you aren't a nurse or a patient, why were you in the hospital? Where you visiting someone?" he pressed, following her, undeterred by the distance.

"What's with the Spanish Inquisition, pal?" Vivien retorted, backing further away from him. "You a copper or something?"

It took a moment for the meaning of her words to cross the culture divide. To him, it sounded like she was asking if he was a coin or a piece of scrap metal. "Yeah, I'm a cop," he said, looking surprised at her guess being correct.

Vivien was surprised too. _Holmes by name, Holmes by nature, as Doc would say. Deduction is in my veins. No shit Sherlock._ She mentally slapped herself into sense again. _He's a copper and he's been shot. It all adds up. Unless he's a bank robber. Then my sums are wrong. _She mentally slapped herself again. _I'm starting to get a handle on him. This means I'm gaining the upper hand._

"You're English," he says, interrupting her thoughts, sounding confused. "Are you a tourist then?"

"Do I look like I'm on holiday to you?"

To her surprise, he suddenly grinned, albeit reluctantly and very shakily, but a grin nonetheless. As he glanced down at her, something about that glance and grin combined took down her defences, breaking through her barriers.

"Look, like I said, I'm a toilet attendant," Vivien said tiredly, "or I was, I don't know anymore. But I was with this man, my friend, and we got separated, so I was... I was just wandering around, cruising the area for supplies," she explained, "so I hit the hospital, hoping I could score something, you know, food, water, a weapon, like a proper weapon - anything I could use really, when you showed up, all Omega Man and shit."

He didn't say anything, just studying her for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Then they both jumped as the corpse on the ground let out a gasp. A disgusting bone-crunching squelching sound shattered the silence as it flipped itself over onto its side like a horrible human-sized crab. It turned its ravaged red-eyed face in their direction, and before Vivien could react, its hand shot out from underneath its torso, grabbing her ankle.

Vivien screamed, completely losing her head. The man screamed as well, trying to drag her and the bike away from the carcass-cleaner, only to end up dragging it along with them. Vivien tried to kick herself free, hopping as she tried to stay in tandem with the man and the bike. They went round in circles, the man sobbing like a baby, Vivien not much better, the man tripping up on the hem of his hospital gown, stumbling sideways in a half circle before falling abruptly onto his backside, the bike landing on top of him with a clatter, taking Vivien down with it.

She landed on her front, half lying on the grass, half on the bike. She lay there for a long moment, stunned. Then reality came rushing back, panic hitting her right in the solar plexus. Vivien hastily staggered to her feet, kicking her legs this way and that way like a can-can dancer, before realising the carcass-cleaner no longer had a grip on her. The fall had broken its hold. She did a final ridiculous twirl before stumbling to a halt next to the man who was still sitting amongst the grass like some overgrown gnome.

With some difficulty, she hauled him to his feet, and then she picked up the bike, wondering all over again why she was even bothering. A bike was no use to them. They needed a vehicle, not some bloody tricycle or bicycle - She slumped forwards, almost landing on her face - again. But the man caught her and the bike - again - and it was like everything was going to repeat itself - again - so she shook him off, leaning against the bike handles for support instead.

"What's wrong with you?" the man asked - again - his voice shaking as he clung to her arm, reverting back into a child - again.

"I'm turning into Tom Cruise," Vivien said sarcastically, "so I suggest you get me some high heels, especially if there are any shelves about that need reaching."

The man just looked at her like she was mad, making Vivien roll her eyes. She was more concerned about the carcass-cleaner currently snarling at them - no surprises there - the area around its mouth torn away, revealing rotting teeth. Chunks had been taken out of its arms, leaving dark patches of dried blood. One hand clawed the air, fingers curled into pincers, the other hand clutching clumps of grass, using it as a means of propulsion to drag itself over the ground like some ghastly oversized slug.

"Let's go," Vivien said tiredly, turning to face the man. "There's nothing for us here. Not anymore, anyways."

His gaze met hers, almost resigned. In that one glance, she realised he believed her now, and she nodded, accepting his acceptance. He then took the bike from her, almost snatching the handlebars out of her hands, before wheeling it away, clearing some distance between them and the carcass-cleaner. Vivien trailed behind him, unsure as to what to do next.

To her surprise, he got on the bike, looking comical as his hospital gown flapped slightly in the breeze. "Get behind me," he ordered, surprising Vivien even more. Then her surprise became annoyance. The idea of him being strong enough to pedal a bike on his own and in his bare feet, never mind with a passenger on the back, was completely laughable. But as his gaze met hers, grey flint on bright blue, her rebellion crumbled into dust.

He leant forwards, half on the saddle, half in the air, and taking the cue, Vivien clambered on behind, taking up the rest of the seat, tucking her feet out of the way of the pedals, carefully avoiding his bandage as she wrapped her arms around his middle. She hadn't done this since she was a child, when Jamie used to give her backies on his bike, before they grew up and everything went wrong. She pressed the side of her face against his shoulder, and he set off, the bike creaking under their combined weight, wobbling from side to side as it moved.

They travelled over grass and sidewalk, under the shade of trees and the glare of the sun, Vivien's thoughts turning with the wheels, mulling over the twisted turn her life had taken, the world falling into darkness, drowning her in chaos. She buried her face into the man's shoulder, the cheap synthetic fabric of his hospital gown rough against her cheek. He was all she had now, all she had left.

* * *

><p>The man breathed heavily, wheezing with the effort of keeping up the momentum, before swinging the bike towards the sidewalk, making a sharp turn that nearly threw Vivien off. She had to cling on for dear life as he went down the glass verge, the wheels juddering up and down, making the teeth rattle in her head. Then the wheels finally struck sidewalk, the jolting mercifully stopping as they sped past rows of silent houses that used to be homes, the ground flying under their feet in a blur of grey.<p>

As they reached a white picket fence slowly being suffocated by the overgrown hedge behind it, the man slowed down, enough for Vivien to slide off the saddle and for him to swing his leg over, hopping off before throwing the bike aside, letting it crash to the ground, its wheels still spinning. Then he was gone, half crawling up some steps that led to a garden gate, making to push it open, only to slump against it instead.

Vivien stood on the sidewalk, trying to steady her shaking legs, cursing herself and the man for losing their only weapon, before walking forwards, glancing around her as she moved, taking in the quiet street and picture perfect houses, all clambakes and cosy cups of coffee, the sort of place where nothing bad happened, until now. Sighing heavily, she then took the man by the elbow, steering him up the path, anxious not to remain out in the open.

But as they moved, her anxiety only increased. This place might have been his home, but they didn't know what they were walking into. The whole house could be heaving with them, a hive of the dead. As they passed a garden shed, she half-heartedly considered kicking the door down in case she could score another crowbar, but before she could, the man suddenly broke free of her grip, stumbling forwards and up the porch steps, before disappearing through the front door.

Vivien staggered after him, cursing his stupidity under her breath. As she reached the porch, she heard him shouting _Lori! _but when she went into the hall, she couldn't see him anywhere. Then he suddenly appeared in a doorway, making her jump violently. He hollered _Lori!_ again, making Vivien leap forwards, clamping her hand over his mouth for the umpteenth time.

"What did I say about keeping your voice down!?" she hissed.

But he just tore himself out of her grip, running back into the room behind him. Vivien followed him, heart tripping with trepidation, watching as the man wandered over to the double bed, snatching up a crumpled red shirt flung over the headboard. Vivien stared at the shirt, the deep burgundy shade of the fabric reminding her of a dress she once had, the past staring to swirl around her - _dark corners and dance floors, the crowd parting like a good-bye, Doc standing there, eyebrow raised _- and then she blinked, feeling like she'd just fallen from a great height.

The man dropped the shirt to the floor, before taking off again, doing a recce around the room, his face distorted by terror and grief. Vivien slowly turned on the spot, studying her surroundings with not much interest, her head spinning with hunger as she did so. Looting had lost its novelty factor, and there didn't seem to be much on offer. If it wasn't edible, she wasn't interested.

Taking off the jumper knotted round her waist, she cast it aside, making for the antique wardrobe in the corner. But when she flung the doors open, it was only to be confronted by the sight of empty coat hangers and almost bare shelves. Elsewhere, drawers had been hastily pulled out, their contents chucked every which way possible. Furniture lay on its side, a bedside cabinet, a wooden chair. Flowers scattered around the room in various cases were long dead, filling the air with a rancid decomposing smell.

Nobody was home, and they hadn't been for a long time. But the man refused to accept what was right in front of him, disappearing through another doorway opposite. Vivien slammed the doors to the wardrobe shut, before leaning her forehead against the polished wooden patina. Nobody was here, and nobody was coming back. Not for her or him. Doc was gone, and so were this Lori and Carl. They were all gone. They could be anywhere. They could be dead.

As she thought this, an inhuman howl echoed through the house, the sound paralysing her. It was as if somebody had just had their heart ripped out of their chest, making her own stop in sympathy. Then she snapped back to life. If they were here... Vivien looked around, searching for a weapon, and finding none. She stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall, then into the kitchen, ransacking the place, but all she could find was a useless butter knife which she took regardless of its ineffectiveness, figuring it was better than nothing, and that she might as well spread some margarine while she was waiting to die.

But Vivien nearly died there and then as another howl hurtled through the house again, making her hand tighten around the handle of the butter knife. _Maybe it's not just the living dead I'm up against, but lycanthropes as well. _She closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to steady herself, time crashing together like cymbals in her skull. She opened her eyes again, the whiteness of the kitchen walls blinding her with their brightness, disorientating her.

Forcing herself forwards, Vivien staggered into a narrow passage with a white wooden ladder leading to somewhere high above, a loft maybe, but she bypassed it, blundering on, her attention half caught by an interpretation of the American flag hand-painted on a sheet of wood hung high above a statement sideboard. She went past a child's bedroom, averting her gaze away from the Lego scattered on the floor, before lurching into a living room filled with wicker furniture and bamboo bookcases, nearly tripping over in quick succession a tea-chest being used as a coffee table, a dark green and gold ottoman and a largish carved wooden swan near the ornamental fireguard.

Then there was another inhuman howl, but its source was all too human. She stumbled to a stop at the sight of the man curled up into a ball on the wooden floorboards, looking as though he was trying to bury himself in the heart of his home. With some difficulty, Vivien knelt down beside him, chucking the butter knife aside, before tentatively patting him on the head, rather like he was a stray dog she'd just discovered.

He glanced up at her, his face mottled, eyes red-rimmed, looking so pathetic, Vivien lost her uncharacteristic shyness, wrapping her arms around his shoulders like he was a child needing comfort. Losing control, he buried his face in her arm, keening the names of his lost family, a kind of caterwauling that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It took all her strength to stay there and endure his pain, having never been able to withstand her own, trying and failing to flee it through alcohol or a blur of men she never knew the names of.

After a while, the man fell silent, glancing up at Vivien again, half searchingly, half disbelievingly, before glancing around the room, his face helpless, bordering on blank. He looked like a little boy who was lost, who wanted to go home. But he _was_ home, the dazed look in his eyes denying reality, making Vivien click her fingers in front of his face, making him blink. But he didn't snap out of his trance, only staring down at the floorboards like he'd never seen them before, before gently pressing the palm of his hand against the wood, as though checking it was there, that it really existed.

Then he raised his head, fixing his gaze on Vivien with almost unseeing eyes. "Is this real?" he asked. "Am I really here?"

Vivien nodded, tears filling her eyes. He closed his own, pressing the side of his hand into his forehead, like he was trying to resist clawing out the memories tormenting him. Then he suddenly snapped, slapping his brow over and over again, like he was trying to knock himself out. She sprung at him, grabbing his hand, stopping him. With a sharp twist of the neck, he glared up at her, sniffing childishly, his blue eyes brimming with tears, face angry and upset, almost petulant. His jaw tightened, lips pursing together, before suddenly yanking his hand out of hers.

But then his face crumpled, and he muttered to himself like a litany, _wake up... wake up... wake up... _hands sliding over the floorboards as he slumped forwards, ready to collapse on the ground again. Vivien reached over to him, but he reared back, eyes now fearful, looking at her like she was going to strike him. He glanced round the room again, lower lip wobbling, before getting to his feet, staggering away from Vivien and out of the living room.

She followed him, her head spinning, calling weakly for him to stop. But he just ignored her, wandering into the hall instead, towards the front door and danger outside. Vivien went after him, hesitating on the porch as he drifted down the path. She didn't know what to do or where to go. He had lost his mind and she was losing herself. Then to her surprise, the man sat down on the steps that led down to the sidewalk, his shoulders hunching in defeat.

Vivien hastily stumbled down the path towards him, trying to hold herself together, before collapsing down beside him, her body slumping with relief at the prospect of rest. To her even greater surprise, he leaned his head against her shoulder. For a long moment, they just sat there, staring blankly at the houses opposite, remembering another life and other lives. Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the sidewalk with shadows, birdsong filling the air, making Vivien shiver despite the heat. This was all that was left of the world, a skeleton of society, decaying and desecrated, their past now nothing more than a pile of mouldering bones.

_Oh Lord in the darkness, lead me on my way  
>Oh Lord in the darkness, lead me on my way<br>Lead me home  
>Lead me home...<em>


	4. Noctambulist

**Noctambulist **

Vivien sat bolt upright, every nerve and muscle on high alert, adrenaline replacing apathy. She was ready to run, to make like a rabbit down the nearest burrow, the man raising his head from her shoulder, turning to see what she saw. Somebody was walking down the road, somebody _alive_. With some difficulty, Vivien got to her feet, ready to hail them, only to freeze as the person altered direction, changing from moving in a straight line to a sharp angle, heading directly in their direction, like a predator hunting its prey.

She grabbed the man's arm, forcing him to his own feet, the face of the carcass-cleaner becoming clearer as it drew closer, a man with a twisted mouth and greasy dark hair, his head tilted to one side. With her heart hammering in her chest, Vivien tried to drag the man back into the house, but he just shoved her aside, annoyed at her antics.

"What the fuck are you playing at!?" Vivien hissed, trying to grab his arm again. But he just evaded her before raising his hand in hesitant greeting to the carcass-cleaner, his eyes alight with childish hope at seeing what he thought was another human being.

For a second, Vivien couldn't move, astonishment paralyzing her. Then she remembered her own stupidity, his foolishness reflecting her own like a mirror, making something snap inside her. Before she could stop herself, she slapped him across the face - hard. He staggered back, shocked, hand flying almost comically to his cheek. Vivien stood there, stunned, as the man backed away from her, before suddenly making a beeline for the sidewalk, tottering down the steps like he was wearing a pair of high heels.

"Please, sir, can you help me? My family used to live here" -

- "Are you insane!?" Vivien screamed, throwing herself forwards and grabbing his arm, trying to haul him back. A struggle ensued, the man being pulled up a step, Vivien being pulled down one, a pattern that repeated itself over and over again as her head swam, the carcass-cleaner advancing on them, the world falling apart around them -

"Don't worry, I'll save ya lady!" a high piping voice called out of nowhere.

Vivien half turned at the sound, startled. Then there was a flash of red, something swishing through the air - Vivien screamed again, lunging forwards - amidst the blur of movement, she saw the man's shocked upturned face, then there was a sharp clang, and he went down, body rolling down the steps, hitting sidewalk -

She just stared in shock at the small boy perched on the step above her, convinced she was hallucinating. He was wearing jeans rolled up at the hems and a red top riddled with sweat patches, the sleeves flapping past his wrists; hands brandishing a metal shovel like it was a sword. The little boy stared at her with a wide-eyed wonder, a strange mixture of pride and nervousness shining in his big brown eyes, obviously pluming himself on his heroics. Vivien swayed slightly on the spot, head spinning.

"Are ya alright, lady?" he asked, worried.

Vivien ignored him, focusing instead on the shovel he was clutching. _The carcass-cleaner. It's coming. _She staggered down the steps, ready to confront it, only to nearly trip over the man on the ground. She slumped down beside him, eyes blurring as his own blurred, as if he was looking at a far horizon only he could see. Blood dripped from his nose and lower lip, echoing the blood that dripped from the lips of the dead.

"Daddy! Daddy!" the small boy shouted, jumping up and down in frustration.

As though from far away, Vivien realised he'd probably been forbidden from killing carcass-cleaners, something he obviously disagreed with. Unbidden, she thought of the little girl back at the hospital, her fair hair falling around her decomposing face, then her flickering image was shattered as the man spoke, staring almost unseeingly at the little boy.

"Carl," he said weakly, "I've found you."

A snarl tore through the air. Vivien's head shot up, the blood pounding through her veins. The carcass-cleaner was staggering up the sidewalk, making right for her. _This is it, the end, a bitter, ignominious end. I was nothing before, and I'm nothing now, and I'll be nothing again. _She glanced down at the man's face, at the grief still etched on his features. This wasn't how he should die, like a piece of rubbish on the pavement.

With rage ricocheting through her, and anger stiffening her spine, she turned to face the little boy, all her ire centring on him. They eyeballed each other for what seemed like eternity, and then she suddenly lunged forwards, grabbing the shovel, trying to yank it out of his hands. But he held fast to the handle, refusing to let go, the two of them pulling on the shovel like it was a Christmas cracker.

"What are ya doin'?" the little boy yelped. "I just saved ya!"

"Give me the shovel!" Vivien screamed, her whole world becoming reduced to the carcass-cleaner coming towards them.

The little boy's eyes met hers, fear creeping into his face. Then he suddenly let go of the shovel, making her suddenly shoot backwards, almost landing on her backside. As she struggled to pull herself together, the little boy danced up and down on the spot, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy! Help me! She's stealin' ma shovel!" Staggering to her feet, she charged at the carcass-cleaner with the shovel raised high above her head like the sword of Damocles, screaming like a banshee, adrenalin and anger lending her strength.

But before she could react, somebody ran out in front of her, raising his gun and blasting the carcass-cleaner in the head with it. Vivien tripped to a stunned halt, the world spiralling around her as the gunshot rang throughout the empty street, the carcass-cleaner's brains splattering the sidewalk. The stranger turned away from the fallen corpse, pointing his gun at Vivien instead.

"Drop the shovel," he ordered, his voice deep and melodious.

She swiftly dropped it, taking a shaky step back as it fell to the ground, the clatter half muffled by the grass growing by the sidewalk.

"Now put your hands in the air!" the stranger then bellowed.

Unwillingly, Vivien raised her hands.

The stranger strode down the sidewalk, gun still aimed at her head. She watched as he stooped down, picking up the shovel before tucking it under his arm. "Go into that shed, Duane, an' see if there's some rope or somethin' in there," he said, looking Vivien up and down like she was a slice of beef he was thinking of buying. "Why are your clothes all torn up like that?" he asked suspiciously as Duane wandered over to the shed.

Vivien just looked at him, her jaw tightening.

"You been bitten?"

Silence.

His eyes narrowed. "Any scratches then, cuts, nicks, anythin' like that?" he snapped.

Silence.

"What did you say?"

"I said no!" Vivien bellowed, finally deigning to speak, trying not to look at him or his gun.

"I never heard you say jack all," he said contemptuously. Then his head snapped up as Duane came out of the shed armed with a coil of manky looking rope. An exchange happened between father and son; Duane taking the gun, his father taking the coil of rope. And like father like son, Duane trained the gun on Vivien, both hands holding it steady.

"You got any weapons?" the stranger asked, his dark gaze flickering over her again.

"I had a butter knife," Vivien said bluntly, "but I left it in the house back there."

_"A butter knife?"_

"I had a crowbar, alright, but I lost it."

"An' your mind as well, girl!" the stranger exclaimed. "You can't walk around armed with butter knifes an' crowbars; they might be alright for gettin' up close an' personal with one or two, but you get a crowd of 'em on your tail? You need firepower or a decent blade, a machete or somethin', not the shit you've been carryin'."

Vivien frowned slightly, wondering at how the stranger seemed almost _worried_ about her welfare. It sat at odds with the gun and coil of rope. Then he pulled a flick-knife out of his jean pocket, making Vivien's heart jump up into her throat. She suddenly considered making a run for it, only to stop short at the sight of the man lying on the ground. He was staring up at the sky, eyes dazed. _I can't abandon him; I just can't, even if it costs me my life. _But despite herself, her gaze darted nervously between the flick-knife and gun. She might escape the sharp edge of a blade but it would be stupid to try and outrun a bullet. Duane might be a little boy but he might have also been a good shot; she didn't know and she didn't particularly want to find out either.

"You're awfully calm for a girl with a gun bein' pointed at her head," the stranger said suddenly, eyes narrowing again. "You used to this sort of thin' or somethin'?"

Vivien managed a non-committal shrug. The stranger glared at her, and despite the gun, she glared back at him, watching as he cut a length of rope, before stowing his flick-knife away. He gestured at her to lower her arms, which she did, scowling at the stranger as she did so, her face rebellious as he wrapped the rope around her wrists, binding her hands together in front of her. Despite herself, she watched his own hands, almost absentmindedly studying their swift movements.

"You admirin' my manicure, girl?" the stranger said sarcastically, making Vivien hastily look away, flushing hotly. He just scoffed derisively before half turning away from her for a moment, muttering something over his shoulder to his son.

As soon as she saw his back was turned, Vivien furtively twisted her wrists from side to side, trying in vain to find some wiggle room, but there was none. But even though the rope was tightly tied, with seemingly undoable knots, it wasn't cutting off her circulation or biting into her skin. _Still, at least he's not tied my ankles together. I don't really fancy hopping to my doom. _The stranger handed over the shovel to Duane, who took it, only having one hand on the gun now, the weapon wavering slightly in mid-air.

"Gun," the stranger prompted, gesturing impatiently to it, Duane reluctantly handing it over. His father then trained the gun on Vivien once more, his jaw tightening, making her wonder what the hell he was up to. If he was going to kill her, surely he would have done it by now, instead of wasting time trussing her up like a turkey. Swallowing hard, she thought of other more terrible alternatives that could be in store for her, before dismissing them. Maybe she was deluding herself, but the worst she thought he was capable of doing was killing her, nothing more, nothing less.

"What the hell's goin' on then, girl?" he asked gruffly

"You tell me!" she retorted. "Your son came out of nowhere and attacked us with a shovel. That's all I know."

He tilted his head to one side, eyes screwed up in confusion. "You English?" he said, perplexed.

"What, you just realising that now?" Vivien spat. "What's your problem? Why don't you just point out I'm white as well while you're at it? None of that shit is relevant anymore! In fact, it never was!"

The stranger had the grace to look embarrassed. But he also looked faintly amused, much to her bewilderment. "What happened, Duane?" he asked his son, his gaze locking with an alarmingly intensity with hers.

"I saw that son of a bitch attackin' that lady," Duane gabbled, "so I saved her!" - he brandished the shovel like a sword - "I got that son of a bitch! An' I'm gonna get him again! I'm gonna smack him dead!"

"Do that and I'll smack you dead, sunshine!" Vivien said before she could stop herself.

The stranger clicked his gun into gear, making her tense up. "Don't you dare threaten my son," he said coldly, smile gone. "It might be the last thin' you ever do." Vivien just stared at him mutinously. He narrowed his eyes for the umpteenth time before looking at Duane. "An' don't you ever swear like that again," he reprimanded, "you weren't brought up to talk trash, right?" Duane just nodded, looking as mutinous as Vivien.

"You shouldn't be surprised," Vivien said suddenly with false bravado, "the apple obviously doesn't fall far from the tree."

There was a deadly silence. Her eyes meet his dark ones, silently daring him to do something. It was a suicidal thing to do, but she couldn't help it. She'd always been pushing the boundaries, never satisfied with bending them, only wanting to break them. Joshua, Jamie, the faceless men of midnights long past, they all gave way. She'd broken them. But the stranger seemed different, tougher, not so easily pushed over.

As though to prove her point, he didn't say or do anything, only looking at her almost thoughtfully. Vivien tilted her chin defiantly, but her lower lip trembled slightly, much to her silent disgust. Some undefined emotion flickered across the stranger's face, wrongfooting her. Then he lowered his gun, wrongfooting her even further, her legs twitching dangerously as the insane urge to flee filled her thoughts again.

"Don't even think about it," the stranger said, reading her mind like a book. "If I don't get you, the geeks will."

"Geeks?" Vivien asked, confused.

"Walkers. Biters. Zombi. Noctambulists. Snake gods. In short, the livin' dead, girl," he snapped. "Where have you been, man? Mars?"

"I call them carcass-cleaners," Vivien said, eyes narrowing.

The stranger just shook his head before striding over to where the man was lying on the ground, half on the grass, half on the concrete. He stared at him like he was a specimen he'd like to study in greater detail, reminding Vivien of Doc for a moment, the memory making her heart fracture in her chest.

"Is this guy your brother or somethin'?" the stranger said over his shoulder, gesturing with his gun to the man on the ground.

"Would you mind not waving that about, please!?" Vivien snapped, agitated in case it went off. To her relief, he lowered the gun. "He's not my brother," Vivien then answered quickly, anxious to prolong this unexpected equanimity. "I don't know who he is."

"It's just... it's just the two of you sort of look alike that's all, except you're prettier," he said almost absentmindedly, studying the man again. But then his head snapped up, his gaze becoming riveted on her with that alarming intensity again. "But not that much prettier, mind you," he added sarcastically, face scornful.

"Well, thanks for the compliment, pal," Vivien fired back.

The stranger ignored her, turning to his son again. "He say somethin' earlier? I thought I heard him say somethin' when I was comin' up through the back," he said, brow furrowing.

"He called me Carl or somethin'," Duane shrugged.

"That's his son," Vivien said quietly, struggling to stay upright.

"I thought you didn't know this guy," the stranger snapped, whirling on her. But before she could frame a retort, he turned on his son. "An' why did you hit him with the shovel, Duane, when you know they don't talk!"

"I thought he was attackin' that lady!" Duane protested. "An' he wasn't talkin' that time, Daddy! He was grabbin' her arm an' stuff; he looked like he was gonna bite her!"

"That's because he was trying to go over and talk to that - that Walker," Vivien said with some difficulty, trying to get to grips with this new definition of the undead. "He was waving hello to it..." Her voice trailed off at the sight of the stranger's appalled face. "He thought it was alive!" she said, trying to defend herself. "And so did I - at first, I mean!"

The stranger just looked at her like she was mad. "Who are you people?" he asked in disbelief.

"Does it matter?" Vivien said, exasperated. "We're alive in the middle of hell" -

- "Don't get all poetic on me, girl," the stranger snapped, cutting her off, "I'd rather you gave me some toilet roll than rhymes." Her jaw dropped slightly. "Oh come on, haven't you ever tried wipin' your ass with the _National Enquirer?_ It's just shit all round," he said, and Vivien wasn't sure if he was joking or not, so she just stuck to letting her jaw drop that bit further. The stranger rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to the man on the ground. "Hey mister, what's that bandage for?" he asked, looking down at him.

"What... what?" the man replied, eyes wide and almost unseeing as he stared up at them all.

The stranger's lips tightened. Then he suddenly pointed his gun downwards, aiming it at the other man's head. "NO!" Vivien screamed, stumbling forwards. "He wasn't bitten! He was shot, alright!? He was shot for God's sake, he was shot!"

"What kind of wound?" the stranger said, ignoring her.

"I TOLD YOU HE WAS SHOT!"

The stranger swung his gun in the direction of her head. Vivien fell silent, swallowing hard. Face hardening, he pointed the gun downwards again, Vivien suddenly throwing herself forwards, almost rugby-tacking him. But he just side-stepped her, trapping her in a one-armed headlock, her feeble attempts at escape cut short by the gun pressed against her temple.

"What kind of wound?" the stranger repeated, enunciating every word. "Answer me, damn you, or she dies!"

Vivien's gaze met Duane's terrified one. "Please," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "he was shot, I _swear_."

His only answer to this was to jam the butt of his gun into the underside of her chin, forcing her to tilt her head up. "You tell me... or I kill the girl," the stranger said coldly, his voice cracking slightly.

"Daddy," Duane whispered, his wide-eyed gaze travelling from Vivien's face to the gun at her throat, "you're scarin' me."

But his father just pressed the gun even deeper against her neck, forcing her to raise her head up even further in turn, hopelessly trying to escape the scrape of metal on her skin. The man on the ground just looked round at them all, face pale and bewildered. Then his body suddenly convulsed before slumping into stillness, his eyelids fluttering shut, effectively sealing Vivien's doom. Silence fell, and Vivien snapped, no longer caring about the consequences.

"Go on, do it," Vivien goaded from between gritted teeth, "just get it the hell over and done with."

Then she closed her eyes, waiting for the end, for the death she'd wanted all along.

* * *

><p>Vivien sat on the floor, back hunched, the sound of hammering filling the air as the stranger finished boarding up the front door. Duane eyeballed her, passing his baseball bat between his hands, like he was going to hit a home run or her head. She shifted uncomfortably on the spot, trying to anchor herself to the floorboards, her head spinning from hunger.<p>

"Where's your shovel?" she asked him weakly, trying to distract herself from the detachment.

But Duane just ignored her, the hammering suddenly ceasing. Vivien supposed his dad was done with entombing them alive. Then the stranger appeared in the doorway, hesitating on the threshold, Vivien studying him, nervous but curious at the same time. He suddenly strode over to her corner, pulling out his flick-knife as he moved, before kneeling down in front of her, holding the flick-knife up to her eyes, tilting the blade from left to right as though he wanted her to see it from all angles, potential destruction at every point. Vivien swallowed hard, trying to subdue her fear.

"Listen to me, girl," he said quietly, "I ain't gonna hurt you in any way but this way" - he motioned slitting his throat - "an' it'll be with this knife, if you give me any gyp or try anythin' funny, okay?"

Vivien nodded, not wanting to say anything smart in case he slashed her.

"As long as you understand that, we'll get along alright," the stranger said, standing up, stowing his flick-knife away.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, making him glance at her sharply. "Uh, I need the loo," she said in a rush, "plus I'm starving, and see him on the bed? He needs his bandage changed, it's absolutely rank."

The stranger raised his eyebrows. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all," Vivien said sullenly, humiliated at being reduced to the level of a toddler, having to tell him she needed to go potty. But the stranger's lips twitched, like he was trying not to laugh. She looked at him, confused. One second he was threatening to cut her throat, the next he was nearly all smiles.

The stranger then motioned at her to get up, Vivien trying and failing to do so. He ended up having to haul her to her feet, using her bound hands almost as leverage, before steering her past a staring Duane, then through the doorway and into the hall, leading her around a corner, then another, before reaching a plain white door. He pushed it open for her, Vivien gasping in shock as the sheer unadulterated stench of shit hit her right in the face, making her retch violently.

"The plumbin' ain't workin'," the stranger explained, covering his face with his arm, "so thin's just... pile up."

"You don't say," Vivien managed to choke out, nearly gagging.

"It's too dangerous to take a dump outside," the stranger said, voice muffled, "an' we can't do our business in a bucket, you know, just chuckin' it out of a window an' whatch you call it - I've got the whole ground level boarded up, an' tossin' it outside from upstairs would just attract the attention of the geeks."

Vivien just nodded, incapable of speech now.

"Go easy on the toilet roll," the stranger warned, half turning away as she stepped forwards, "there's not much left."

He slammed the door shut behind her, leaving her to her fate. Vivien didn't waste any time trying to find a weapon or something to cut herself free, figuring it best to play it cool – for the time being. The window was boarded up, but she reasoned the stink would have killed her before she'd even pried the first plank loose. And anyways, she wasn't planning on leaving the man to the mercy of Duane and his deranged dad.

Taking short shallow breaths, she tried to clean her hands with the sliver of soap on the side of the washstand, wiping her hands on the front of her filthy jeans, wondering why she was even bothering. She hadn't brushed her teeth for two days at least, only rubbing toothpaste onto her gums with her forefinger, since she couldn't score a clean toothbrush for love or money. As for the last time she'd had a shower, forget it.

Vivien took one last swift glance at the boarded up window, thinking of the world outside, of Doc divided from her, before kicking the door to signal she was done. The stranger pushed it open again, face scrunched up, nose tucked into his shoulder. She dived out of the bathroom, the stranger slamming the door shut, the bang echoing throughout the still hall, making her wince. He then led her back to the bedroom, steering her back over to her corner where a wooden chair had been placed. Vivien sat down, surprised at his consideration.

"Thanks," she said cautiously, wondering if he was trying to get her guard down.

He nodded abruptly in acknowledgement, face inscrutable.

Vivien's gaze then drifted from him to the double bed, where bandages and a first aid kit had been laid out. "I thought you would have been guarding the door the whole time," she said smartly, throwing all caution to the wind.

This time it was the stranger who was surprised.

Vivien jerked her chin at the bandages and first aid kit, kicking the wooden leg of her chair for good measure.

His face cleared. "I figured you wouldn't be dumb enough to try anythin' stupid, so I thought I'd sort some stuff out while you were in there," the stranger said cagily.

"How did you know for sure though that I wouldn't chance it?"

He just looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing again. Then he gestured to the man on the bed, the movement swift, impatient. "You say you don't know this guy, right?" he asked, sounding pissed off.

Vivien nodded, confused.

"How did you meet him?"

"In a hospital" -

- "With your lil breadknife, yeah?"

"No."

"Your lil crowbar, then?"

"No," she lied, just for the hell of it.

"You're tellin' me you went into a hospital of all places with nothin' but your bare hands to defend yourself with?"

Vivien just narrowed her eyes at him as he narrowed his own even more at her until they were nothing but slits, then she nodded again, spinning the lie out, enjoying enraging him with her apparent stupidity.

"Then maybe you are dumb after all," the stranger said coldly.

"Oh really?" Vivien said as equally as coldly.

"Yes, really," the stranger retorted. "You're walkin' about with either nothin' or complete shit to protect yourself from the dead an' the livin', then you roll up to a hospital, a place that's probably _heavin' _with geeks, before pickin' up a total stranger who doesn't know the world has ended, who slows you down an' waves to the Walkers like they're his new best friend."

She just shrugged her shoulders.

"Look at yourself, girl," he said, exasperated. "You're trussed up like a Christmas turkey, completely at my mercy, all because you were too dumb to take care of yourself properly."

"Whatever," Vivien spat. "I like being a turkey. It's better than being a chicken, isn't it?"

"I ain't callin' you a coward, girl," the stranger said, looking at her like she was crazy. "But there's a difference between bravery an' stupidity. Recklessness is just gonna lead to bein' ripped apart."

Vivien just glared at him.

"How long you been out there?" he then asked quietly, wrongfooting her again.

"I don't know," she said slowly, "I've just been wandering about, trying to keep one step ahead of them, the... the Walkers."

"You lost track of time, then?"

"It feels more like its lost track of me," Vivien said tiredly. "I was with my friend, but we got... I mean, I'm on my own now, apart from him on the bed."

"Is she dead?"

"It's a bloke," she said stupidly, thinking of Doc all besuited and side-burned, "I mean, my friend, he's a bloke, not a girl."

"Well, is _he_ dead?"

"He's just... gone."

"How many of 'em have you killed?"

"None," Vivien replied, "prefer to run than fight."

The stranger just looked at her, and she couldn't decipher the expression in his eyes, whether it was contempt, grudging admiration or if he just thought she was plain bonkers.

"How many people have you killed?" he then asked, startling her.

Silence.

"Again, none," she said quietly, realising this was the million dollar question.

But the stranger didn't say anything else, the candlelight flickering between life and oblivion around them.

_My, my cold hearted child, tell me how you feel_  
><em>Just a blade in the grass, spoke unto the wheel<em>  
><em>My, my cold hearted child, tell me where it's all gone<em>  
><em>All the lustre of your bones, those arms that held you strong<em>

_I've been worryin' that my time is a little unclear_  
><em>I've been worryin' that I'm losing the ones I hold dear<em>  
><em>I've been worryin' that we all, live our lives, in the confines of fear<em>

_My, my cold hearted child, tell me how you feel_  
><em>Just a grain in the morning air, dark shadow on the hill<em>  
><em>My, my cold hearted child, tell me where it all falls<em>  
><em>All this apathy you feel will make a fool of us all...<em>


	5. No One Is An Island

**No One Is An Island **

_The stars high above. Doomed to die yesterday. Falling into darkness, sinking beneath the waves, hair billowing around my face like black banners, eyes like empty windows... _

Vivien jolted awake, limbs jerking, the back of her head hitting something hard. She lay there for a long moment, staring up at the swooping pattern sweeping across the ceiling, before trying to get up, only to be yanked back like a yo-yo on a string. It took a second for it to sink in, but the ache in her arms quickly drove the message home. The bastard had hamshackled her to the headboard of the double bed, dumping her next to the man from the hospital.

A shadow fell across her, making her glance up sharply, somehow seeing the stranger with a sudden strange clarity; dark eyes with defences and drawbridges, stubble staining his skin, hands that trembled slightly, faded clothes reflecting his fading hope. Vivien tried to sit up, only to slump down again, before finally giving up, cursing herself for being so foolish as to think it was safe to fall asleep in this house, in this hell.

"What's the deal with tying me to the bed?" she asked, trying and failing to keep calm.

"Don't worry, you're safe," the stranger said dryly, "or as safe as you're ever gonna be in this world anyways."

"Why won't you untie my hands, then?" she spat, words almost but not quite becoming a whine.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I've met too many people just like you - seem okay on the surface, when they're really psychopaths underneath, only thinkin' of savin' their own skins," he said quietly, silencing her. For a long moment, he stared at her, studying her plain face, almost as if he was seeking something, something indefinable. Then he laughed, stunning her into further silence. "It's nuts, but I thought you were different," he said, stunning her all over again.

"How am I different?" Vivien asked in astonishment.

"You said you found him in a hospital, that you didn't know him," the stranger said, jerking his head at the man lying on the bed beside her, "yet you saddled yourself with him, draggin' him along like deadweight. That's how I thought you were different. I thought you were good."

"I'm not good, pal, but I'm not exactly bad either," she pointed out from between gritted teeth. The stranger raised a sceptical eyebrow. "There are other survivors then? It's not just us?" she then asked, swiftly changing the subject, not in the mood to engage in a debate about modern morality.

"Yeah, there are other survivors, alright," the stranger said, jaw tightening. "Last one I had the misfortune to come across was up in Macon, a woman, ran a small turkey farm. She took us in, fed us an' everythin'. Next thin' I knew, she had a gun at my head, accusin' me of stealin' her jewellery - I mean, why would I steal her jewellery, huh? It ain't gonna feed me or my wife an' son, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Vivien replied, curious at the mention of a wife, since she hadn't seen hide or hair of one.

"What's your name, girl?" the stranger suddenly asked, startling her for the umpteenth time.

"Why do you want to know?" she retorted, recovering herself.

He just shrugged his shoulders. "I'm Morgan, for all it's worth," he said self-deprecatingly.

Silence.

"I'm Vivien," she said reluctantly.

"Vivien, huh?" Morgan said almost jovially. "Like the actress, yeah?" She just stared blankly at him. "Scarlett O'Hara? Fiddle-dee-dee?" he prompted. Vivien looked away, bored. "I'm not a fan either," he said, voice shaking slightly, "but my wife, she's a Clark Gable girl, absolutely adores his lil moustache" -

- "Whatever," she snapped. "Just tell me where the hell I am."

The stranger stared at her again, before catching himself. "You're in King County, Georgia, USA, the United States of America," the stranger snapped back, spitting his words like bullets. "It's day sixty of the outbreak, two months on from the initial infection. On days thirty to thirty three, the gas lines stopped workin' an' my Jenny died. The world's goin', goin', gone, girl, an' it's takin' us with it."

* * *

><p>Vivien's aching body shifted uncomfortably on the spot, mattress springs creaking in protest, rope now biting into her wrists. Her stomach growled painfully, reinforcing the hunger making her head spin. Despite telling the stranger she was starving, he'd just continued to let her starve, and pride prevented her from begging for a glass of water, her craving for it nearly driving her crazy.<p>

Beside her, the man lay still and silent, face slack, mouth slightly open. But the blood had been scrubbed off his skin, his lower lip scabbing over, healing from where Duane had hit him with the shovel. Then a shadow fell across the bed again, making Vivien glance up once more, scowling at the sight of Morgan staring down at her, clutching a glass of orange juice in his large hand. His dark eyes were wide and almost anxious, making him look younger, more vulnerable, like Duane.

"Here, drink this," Morgan said gruffly, almost gently, the tone of his voice sitting at odds with what she remembered of him; the gun aimed at her head, the knife held in front of her face. But she parted her lips, thirst forcing her to obey as he tipped the glass up and against her mouth, some of the juice spilling down her chin. But she swallowed it with a terrible eagerness, her throat making its parched presence felt.

"Hey, hey, not so fast," Morgan admonished, taking the glass away and setting it down on the bedside cabinet. "You'll make yourself even more ill, drinkin' all that on an empty stomach."

"Who are you? Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman!?" Vivien snapped, before catching herself. "I'm sorry," she then apologised, tensing up as he raised his eyebrows in that sceptical fashion again. "It's just... look, I just don't want any trouble, alright? Just let us go, and we'll be gone, I promise."

"I _can't_."

"I get that you have to protect your son," she said slowly from between gritted teeth, "but you don't try and gun down a sick man who can't speak for himself."

"I didn't though, did I? I brought him here, changed his bandage, cleaned him up" -

- "So what? Does that _exonerate _you or something" -

- "Shut up! Just shut the hell up!"

Vivien just looked at him, the corners of her lips curling contemptuously. "You're frightened, aren't you?" she said spitefully. "And you think flashing your piddly little flick-knife in my face makes you the big man, but here's a news-flash pal, I'm not frightened of you. In fact, I rather pity you. But most of all, I pity your son. You think you're frightened? He's absolutely terrified - terrified of_ you_. You didn't see his face when you had your gun at my head. He was practically pissing his pants. And that's why I pity him, because he's frightened of a coward, a bully" -

- "Shut the hell up!"

"No, I won't shut up! I'm just as frightened as you but you don't see me" -

- "Of course I'm frightened!" Morgan bellowed. "Sometimes I look at myself in that mirror, an' I go, who are you, man? That ain't me, that ain't me, man. I don't recognize myself - it's as if some other guy's lookin' out of my eyes, lookin' at me, an' he's smilin' because I'm scared, because I'm completely shittin' myself. I ain't in my right mind, girl!"

"Who is, pal? The dead are walking, Morgan, actually _walking_!" Vivien hurled at him. "You try wrapping your head round that one" -

A faint groan filled the air, making them both start violently, Morgan's hand flying instinctively to the gun in his belt as the man stirred uneasily. For a terrible moment, Vivien thought he was one of them, but then his eyelids flickered open, almost reluctantly, revealing a glimpse of grey, life not death. Then a floorboard creaked, making Morgan and Vivien jump all over again. But it was only Duane drifting in from the hall. Morgan exchanged a glance with his son before striding over to the man's side of the bed.

"You awake now?" he asked roughly, but not unkindly, much to Vivien's surprise. But the man just looked at him blearily, before glancing around the room, passing over Vivien like she didn't exist, before doing a double-take, eyes widening with terror at the sight of her bound wrists.

"Yes, it's me, your worst nightmare," she said sarcastically, "dressed to thrill and licensed to kill."

"Shut up," Morgan snapped, looking at her like she was insane. But the man just looked at Morgan as though he was insane. And Vivien looked at Duane as though he was insane too, so he didn't feel left out. "Got that bandage changed now, it was pretty rank," Morgan then tried to say conversationally, resting a hand on the headboard as he shot Vivien a warning look to stop the wisecracks. "What was the wound?"

"Oh, please," Vivien said, rolling her eyes, "put another record on."

"What was the wound?" Morgan repeated, ignoring her.

"Gunshot," the man said with some difficulty.

"Gunshot?" Morgan echoed sceptically.

"I told you he'd been shot," Vivien spat.

"What, gunshot ain't enough?" the man snapped, startling her. She looked at him, wrongfooted. He just looked back at her, eyebrows slightly raised, and for a second, she seen the steel lining his soul. Then he jerked his head at the torn tartan blanket draped over her lap. "Thought you were English?" he asked coolly.

"What, you hoping for a Highland fling?" Vivien said just as coolly. "Mind you, I've got a thing for blokes that wear kilts. Men in skirts are _hot_."

The man glanced fearfully down at his own hemline, then at her, losing his cool.

Vivien shot him a wink, winding him up even further.

"Quit the side-show act, girl," Morgan interjected as the man tried and failed in his less than discreet attempt to edge away from her.

"It's not my fault if I look like one, is it?" Vivien retorted.

"Shut the hell up, girl!"

"Hey, don't talk to her like that," the man protested, forgetting to be repulsed as he rushed to her defence.

"Look, when _I _talk, _you_ listen, an' when _I_ ask, _you_ answer, right?" Morgan said, looming over the man. "Did you get bit?"

"Bit?"

"Bit, chewed, maybe scratched," Morgan continued. "Anythin' like that?"

The man just looked at him, puzzled.

"Well, answer the goddamn question!" Morgan shouted, making them all jump this time.

"I was shot, alright!" the man shouted back. "Just shot as far as I know - does that answer your goddamn question!?"

There was a long moment of silence. Then Morgan's hand suddenly shot out, making the man and Vivien jerk back in tandem. "Hey," Morgan said quietly, sounding almost human for a moment, "just let me." He pressed the palm of his hand against the man's forehead, then his fist, testing the man's temperature. "Seems cool enough," Morgan said over his shoulder to Duane, who drifted deeper into the room, hesitant but curious all at once.

Morgan then straightened up, Vivien tensing up as he pulled out his flick-knife again. With a swift flourish of the wrist, he snapped it open, the click echoing through the air. The man didn't move a muscle, but Vivien could almost taste the tension radiating from him.

"Take a moment, see how sharp it is," Morgan said, leaning forwards, the tip of the blade perilously close to the man's eyeball, "you try anythin', I will kill you with it, an' don't you think I won't."

The man didn't say anything, his blue eyes baleful, jaw clenched. Then Morgan did the impossible. He leaned round the back of the man, cutting his cords, before doing the same for Vivien. Snapping the flick knife shut, Morgan then ushered Duane out of the room, glancing over his shoulder at them, saying almost civilly, "come on out when you're ready."

Vivien forced herself to nod her head curtly in acknowledgement, and then they were gone, disappearing through the doorway. She slumped back onto the bed, body rooted to the mattress, mind going into rollercoaster mode again. The undead. Doc. An empty house, a family gone. Morgan. Duane. All parts of a puzzle that didn't fit together, only connected by a lost girl and a stranger who woke up after the world ended.

The man curled up into a ball beside her, his whole body trembling. "Are you alright?" Vivien asked in an undertone, knowing damn well he wasn't, but he just nodded, giving her the lie. She then sat up, casting the tartan blanket to the winds, before swinging her shaky legs over the side of the bed, attempting to stand up, only to bury her face in her hands, trying to hold it together and spectacularly failing.

"You okay?" the man asked quietly.

Vivien got to her feet, stumbling away from the man and his concern. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm great," she muttered, wiping her eyes roughly with the inside of her rope-burned wrists. The man got to his own feet, swaying slightly as he tried to recover his equilibrium. Vivien turned on the spot, searching for a mirror, before spotting a dressing table in the corner. She staggered over to it, stooping down to see her reflection. Still haggard, still filthy, still her. She straightened up, turning to face the man instead.

"What's your name?" Vivien asked bluntly.

He contemplated her for a moment, before answering. "Rick," he answered, "Rick Grimes."

"I'm Vivien, Vivien Holmes," she said, feeling foolish at how formal she sounded. Rick just nodded, Vivien nodding as well. It would have been stupid to say it was nice to meet him, because it wasn't, not in this way. He looked round the room, then at her again.

"You said the dead were walking," he said bluntly.

"Well, they're hardly doing ballet, are they?"

Rick just turned away from her, hunching his shoulders. Vivien turned away from him in turn, fighting the urge to punch something, preferably his face. "Who are these people anyways?" he asked abruptly, changing the subject.

"Some father and son double act," she replied, creeping over to the window, the floorboards creaking under her torn trainers. "You think I'm crazy? The dad's even worse. He's a complete fruitcake. You got a taste of it there with his little Reservoir Dogs routine."

"Has he... has he hurt you?"

Vivien glanced over her shoulder at him, not liking what he was implying. "No, he didn't," she said sullenly, tucking a loose tendril of tangled hair behind her ear.

"Why did he shackle you to the bed, then?"

"Why did he shackle _you_ to the bed?" Vivien fired back, folding her arms across her chest.

Rick stared at her in disbelief. "How can you just stand there and act like this is nothing?" he spat, gesturing angrily at her. "We're trapped in this funhouse with a _mad-man _- my wife and son are_ missing_, the dead supposedly _walking_" -

- " 'Supposedly?' "Vivien said, raising a sceptical eyebrow à la Morgan.

"Yeah, _supposedly_," Rick retorted, stepping forwards so he was right in her face, his eyes boring into hers, blue battling blue. But she stood her ground, unperturbed, something which seemed to irk him, reminding Vivien of herself, neither of them not taking no for an answer.

"The dead _are _walking, Rick," Vivien then said quietly, dropping her arms to her sides.

"I don't think so."

"Then what was that back at the bike!? Back at the hospital!?" Vivien suddenly exploded, losing control. "An optical illusion? A trick of the light? This isn't Halloween, pal. This is real life, and the sooner you accept that, the better."

"You're just talking bullshit," Rick said, shaking his head, denying her, denying the truth. Outside he'd believed, but in here, it was now a whole different story, back to the beginning, once upon a time, a happy ending on the horizon when in reality it was all just a lie, a delusion, an illusion.

"It's better that I talk bullshit than putting a bullet through your skull, isn't it?" Vivien said, voice cracking despite herself. "If there are other people out there, they're not going to be like me, taking you by the hand, trying to help you. They're not going to be like him across the hall either - they're going to be ten times worse than him, like every nightmare you've ever had rolled into one. That's why we have to trust each other. He's trusting us by cutting us loose, so we have to meet him halfway."

But Rick just shook his head at her, before turning and striding out of the room, limping as he went, the hem of his hospital gown flapping ridiculously around his ankles. Vivien just stood there, seething, before going over to the wardrobe and pulling open the doors. She rifled through what was on offer, middle-aged mediocrity, before slamming the door shut, her hands shaking as she stared at her reflection in the full-length built-in mirror. Hair black as night. Lips red as blood. Skin white as snow. Snow White, dead and alive all at once. This is who she was, all she'd ever be. With one last glance at the girl in the mirror, she turned away from the truth, gilding her tongue with lies, forging a future founded on falsehood.

* * *

><p><em>There's a light upon this house on a hill<em>  
><em>The living, living still...<em>

With trembling legs, Vivien made her way down the dark hall. Not sure where to go, she headed towards a half open door, soft light spilling out from behind it. She pressed her palms against the whitewashed wood, before pushing the door open, hesitating in the doorway as her gaze met Rick's. He stood awkwardly to the left of an archway of sorts, a white blanket wrapped around him like a shawl, lending him a biblical look, what with the beard and bare feet. Vivien nodded at him, trying to bridge the breach between them, but he just turned his back on her.

"Same to you," Vivien muttered, stepping into the room, making Morgan look up, startled.

"Oh, it's you," he said, sounding less than pleased to see her.

"Yes, it's me," she said, shoulders hunching, fists curling into balls.

"Did you blow out the candles an' put out the lamps?"

"No."

For a moment, Morgan looked as though he was going to explode, but he just exhaled sharply instead. "Duane, son, go an' put out the lights," he said, picking up a silver spoon. Duane stared at his dad, lower lip thrust out defiantly, and then he turned and stomped out of the room, muttering mutinously all the while under his breath. Morgan watched him go, before continuing to lay the table, carefully setting down plates and cutlery, examining their surfaces with a critical eye.

As he picked up another spoon, the movement measured and careful, studying the silver intently for the slightest stain, Vivien studied him in turn, taking in the hunch of his shoulders, the trembling of his fingers, the lines etched around his dark eyes. But somehow her gaze found Rick's instead, and she faltered, wrongfooted by the disapproving gaze. Then Duane came back through the doorway, entering the room at great speed before skidding to a halt, rumpling up a rug as he went. Rick looked away, Vivien staring at the floorboards instead, confused, then resentful at being reduced to the level of a child.

Slowly but surely, she raised her gaze from the ground again, only to find Rick staring at her once more. But this time round, the expression in his eyes was inscrutable, unreadable. Then he suddenly turned and shuffled through the archway beside him, disappearing from sight. Vivien followed him, curiosity getting the better of her.

As Rick wandered over to one of the shrouded windows, she turned slowly and unsteadily on the spot, taking in her surroundings. Lamps and lanterns lay scattered on various surfaces, illuminating the area with a soft glow. Comfy looking armchairs filled the corners, one laden with suitcases and plastic bags, another surrounded by tins and cans stacked up in irregular piles, a portable cooking stove lying amongst them. Then Morgan appeared in the archway, face suspicious.

"What are you up to?" he asked, aiming his accusation solely at Vivien.

"Just admiring the decor," she said smartly.

"This place," Rick suddenly said, turning around, his brow furrowing, "this was Fred and Cindy Drake's house."

"Never met 'em," Morgan replied, turning away from Rick.

"I've been here," Rick argued, stepping forwards. "This is their place."

"It was empty when we got here," Morgan snapped, whirling around. "Everybody was gone."

Rick just stared at Morgan for a second, before tugging the edges of his blanket closer around his shoulders, turning away from them all. As he wandered back over to the window, Vivien suddenly remembered him curled up on the floorboards, howling like an animal. As though from far away, she remembered the nights spent in houses that used to be homes, door handles being turned by rotting fingers. Scavenging, searching, surviving. Being lost, lost innocence and lost lives. In all those moments, everyone and everything was gone, and her knees buckled under her, Morgan grabbing her arm, catching her before she fell.

"Jesus, you alright!?" he demanded.

"What's wrong with her?" Rick asked, staggering over as she struggled to stay upright in Morgan's arms.

"This world is what's wrong with her," Morgan snapped, turning and steering her back through the archway, Rick trailing behind them like a lost soul. "She's gone through too much, an' the body can only cope with so much. Call it nervous exhaustion or whatever you like, but she needs to rest, man, not standin' around like a fool, dead on her feet."

He ushered Vivien over to one of the chairs rigged up round the rickety table, all but forcing her to sit down. As she watched him fuss over the forks, it finally hit her that they owed him their lives, even as he'd threatened to end them. "Sit down," Morgan instructed, gesturing impatiently at Rick and Duane who were still standing. Duane took a seat at the head of the table, assuming a lofty magnanimous attitude as he did, forcing his father to smother a smile. Morgan then sat down opposite Vivien, his eye catching hers for a second, before they both looked away, Morgan turning his head in Rick's direction again. "I said, sit down," Morgan repeated, trying and failing spectacularly to be civil.

Rick scowled at being spoken to like a dog, before shuffling over to the table, pulling out a chair and throwing himself down onto it. Morgan studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he leaned over the table, picking up a large silver Thermos flask wrapped up in a tea-towel, using the cloth like an oven glove. As he put the flask down beside his plate, Vivien took in the rest of the table, studying what was on offer. A fancy looking faux antique black lantern beamed out a soft glow. Next to it stood a small pot with an ebony handle, the smell of meat cooking escaping tantalisingly from beneath its lid. The pot itself was placed on top of some sort of metal stand, something she didn't recognize.

"It's a sternowarmer," Morgan explained, catching her confused expression, "keeps already warm food warm" -

- "Your friend," Rick said suddenly to Vivien, startling them all, "Is - is he dead?" His words hung in the air, spreading, corrupting, infecting. Vivien stared down at her plate, fingers curling into claws out of sight under the table. "You - you said you were with someone," Rick continued, voice rising an octave, losing his cool, his control, "that you got separated" -

- "Calm down, man," Morgan said coldly, "gettin' hysterical ain't goin' to help anyone here, is it?" Rick swallows hard, choking down his hysteria, the taste bitter on his tongue. He glared at Morgan, who just ignored him, calmly lifting the lid of the pot instead, before peering inside it, brow furrowing. "Hmm, it might need a minute or so before it's ready," Morgan said thoughtfully to no-one in particular. "Needs to be heated up properly, you know?" He smiled at his scared son, who just stared back at him with wide eyes. Vivien resumed staring at her plate, her fingernails now digging into her palms, hating Rick for making her remember, forcing her to face what she was trying to forget.

Morgan put the lid back on the pot, taking his sweet time about it. Then he sighed heavily, brow furrowing even further. "You two need to watch out for the dogs out there," Morgan said quietly, this sudden shift in the conversation startling them all over again. "They hunt in packs like wolves, attackin' the dead but most of all the livin'. Seen it happen to a guy up near Jonesboro. Dogs just took him down like he was a deer. The owners are long gone, so they just turn feral, survival of the fittest an' all that shit."

Rick's jaw tightened, plainly refusing to believe that man's best friend had just become man's worst enemy. But then his shoulders slumped and he rested his forehead on his hand, the gesture signalling defeat. Vivien stared at her plate again, not wanting to see, to know, whilst wondering why Morgan was trying to cut her a break. Then she jumped, almost startled out of her skin as Duane thrust a cut glass tumbler into her face.

"Sorry," he chirped, shoving the tumbler into her hand instead.

Involuntarily, Vivien glanced at Morgan, heart twisting in her chest as he smothered another smile, amused at his son's antics. Feeling the tips of her ears turning crimson, she pretended to study the pattern engraved round the tumbler's rim. Then she realised it wasn't a pattern but a message, _remember Paris_, _xoxo_. She quickly put the glass back down on the table, hands shaking. This was all that was left of Fred and Cindy Drake, a house filled with meaningless ephemera, artefacts of a life long gone. They'd probably saved these glasses for special occasions, toasting each other on anniversaries, their eyes meeting across the dinner table, maybe remembering Paris at midnight, or the sun setting over the Seine.

_Everything and everyone is gone._

Doc. Rick's family. Morgan's wife. Herself lost in a world that shouldn't be. Vivien wiped her eyes roughly with the inside of her wrist as Rick looked away, resting his forehead on his hand again. Morgan leaned over the table, pouring some water into her tumbler. Her gaze met his for a moment, and she suddenly stood up, pushing her chair away from the table, just wanting to run, to go, to get the hell out of here.

"Sit down, Vivien," Morgan said quietly, nonplussed.

Vivien shook her head. _He doesn't understand. He can't._

"There's nowhere to run, girl," Morgan said, voice rising, "so sit the hell down."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because I won't, I just won't!"

Silence.

"You know," Morgan said slowly, studying her as she stood there, ready to run, "I never took you for a coward, girl. But I guess I was wrong, eh? You're just another piece of ass waitin' for your knight in shinin' armour to come ridin' to the rescue, because you're too scared to save your own skin" -

- "I don't need anybody to save me; I can take care of myself!"

"Really?" Morgan said, sounding bored now.

"Yes, really!" she fired back. "So stuff your chair up your arse, and get the hell out of my face!"

"I'd rather you just sit down, so we can get on with dinner."

"Fine!"

Vivien threw herself back down onto the chair, chest heaving with impotent rage.

"Thank you," Morgan said, almost but not quite sarcastically, "is there anythin' else you'd like to say, while you're up on your high horse?"

"No," she retorted. But then he made the mistake of raising his eyebrows, the scepticism of his expression striking her right to the core, making her leap out of her seat again, ready to make a break for it, come hell or high water.

"For God's sake, girl, just keep your ass on the goddamn chair!" Morgan exclaimed, slamming the table with his fist, the impact of hand meeting wood making the water in the tumblers tremble. But Vivien just flipped Morgan the middle finger, no longer caring about the niceties, about trying to build bridges and meeting him halfway. She was going, going, gone, and she turned to leave, ready to do a runner.

"Vivien, please!" Rick hissed, the venom in his voice making her whirl around in anger, ready to lash out at him again as well. But the expression in his eyes made her falter, the depth of emotion present in them confusing her. For a moment, he looked like he cared, like he actually gave a damn, and she didn't understand why he should. She was nothing to him, nothing at all. "Just... just sit down," he said tiredly, and to everyone's surprise, including her own, she did, flinging herself back down into her seat again, folding her arms defiantly across her chest as she threw him a dirty look he just ignored.

There was an awkward silence, and then Morgan sighed heavily, running his hand over his face. "Rule number one, girl, is keep quiet out there an' in here," Morgan then said, looking round at them all, "sound draws 'em like flies, an' now they're all over the street..." He picked up his fork, before putting it back down again. "It was stupid usin' that gun out there today, but it happened so fast, I didn't think..." He paused for a moment, before looking directly at Vivien. "That's why you better quit tryin' to break out of this house, cos you ain't gonna get very far, not with all these geeks out there."

"I-can-protect-myself!" she spat, enunciating every word with clipped precision.

"With what? A tea spoon? Cutlery ain't gonna cut it, girl! You can't defend yourself against 'em usin' silverware; it ain't werewolves we're dealin' with" -

- "You shot that man, today," Rick interrupted, stunning them all.

"A man!?" Vivien said in disbelief, half wondering at Rick even registering the incident at all.

_"Man?" _Morgan echoed, attention shifting from her to Rick.

"It weren't no man," Duane said, sort of shoogling his shoulders and head sideways for extra emphasis.

"What the hell was that out of your mouth just now?" Morgan demanded, making Vivien stare at him. The world was coming to an end, and he was correcting his son's speech.

"Talk about getting your priorities in the wrong order," she muttered under her breath, nobody paying her any heed for once.

"It _wasn't _a man," Duane said, sounding oddly posh.

"You shot him on the sidewalk out front, a _man_," Rick continued, regardless of the elocution lesson taking place under his nose.

"Friend, you need glasses," Morgan said, frowning at Rick.

"And a large dose of reality," Vivien added for good measure, making Rick get to his feet, striking an almost biblical pose as he stared accusingly at them all, as though he was about to smite them down with his wrath. "Rick, please!" Vivien gasped, feigning outrage, parodying his earlier plea.

"Hey, that's enough," Morgan snapped, glaring at her, before turning to face Rick again. "Come on, sit down," he said, not unkindly, but Rick remained resolutely rooted on the spot, his jaw tightening. "Sit down, before you fall down," Morgan said again, an edge creeping into his voice as he removed the lid from the small pot on the sternowarmer, stirring its contents with a wooden spoon, the smell making Vivien's stomach rumble again.

"What's in the pot?" she asked suspiciously.

"Canned stew," Morgan replied, ladling some of it onto her plate, "stewed steak to be precise, mixed up with some onion an' potato. Normally, I make it with parsnip an' Swede, maybe some carrots an' leeks, with a little bit of celery an' lentils flung in, but I had to make do with what we've got at hand, which ain't much, in terms of variety."

"What about some stock cubes for flavour?" Vivien said, forgetting herself.

"Normally, I'd use that too," Morgan said, "but again, I have to use what I've got, not what I don't."

"The onion will give it a bit of a kick though, won't it?" she said, sniffing the air appreciatively.

"Precisely, why I put it in," Morgan said, starting to sound pissed off.

Vivien picked up her fork, ready to tuck in, when Rick spoke, making her hand freeze in mid-air. "Can I have some... please?" Rick asked, almost unwillingly.

"Yeah, you can," Morgan replied. But he didn't make any move to give him any. The two men looked at each other, the corner of Morgan's mouth quirking downwards, Rick's jaw tightening again. Vivien just stared at them, fork still hovering in mid-air. "Here," Morgan then said roughly, almost chucking the stew onto Rick's plate. Rick then deigned to sit down with almost indecent haste

As Morgan ladled out some more stew for himself and his son, Rick pulled his plate towards him, snatching up his fork, ready to dig in. Vivien followed his example, only to be halted by Duane as he shot both Rick and Vivien a stern sidelong glance, before turning to his father and saying, "Daddy, blessin'." Rick slammed his fork back down on his plate, looking extremely put out at the prospect of prayer, which sat at odds with his biblical appearance. Vivien put down her own fork, albeit more quietly.

"Okay, son, we'll perform a blessin'," Morgan agreed, throwing Rick a dirty look. He then proceeded to take his son's hand, with Duane taking Vivien's in turn. Rick just sitting there, looking annoyed. Duane looked at him, jerking his head at Rick's hand, and then Vivien's, as though to say, _come on, man, join the party._ Rick's jaw tightened again, looking like he was trying to stop himself saying something he'd regret. But then he stretched his hand out, and Vivien took it, Morgan taking Rick's other hand, closing his eyes as he did so.

"Lord, we thank thee for this food, thy blessin's," Morgan intoned, opening his eyes, almost glaring at each of them in turn, "an' we ask you to watch over us in these crazy days. Amen."

"Amen," Duane echoed.

Morgan stared pointedly at Vivien, and she hastily muttered an Amen as well, trying to make it sound as sincere as possible. But it seemed to satisfy Morgan, and he switched his stare from her to Rick, silently pressurising him to say Amen too, but Rick kept quiet, focusing on his plate with a desperate eagerness that almost made Vivien laugh despite everything. Like father like son, Duane shot Rick a dirty look, before letting go of Morgan's hand, then Vivien's. She hastily let go of Rick's hand. Morgan did the same, and Rick took this as permission to tuck in, falling on his food with unashamed greed.

Vivien hesitated before snatching up her fork again, stuffing the stew down her throat as fast as she could, burning the roof of her mouth. Then her eye caught Morgan's, the inscrutable expression on his face making her fork falter in mid-air. Then he ladled some more stew onto their plates, watching with some concern as they pounced on it, ravenous as wolves.

"Fanks," she said, cramming a piece of potato into her mouth. "This is bwilliant gwub, man."

"Yes, fank you," Rick agreed, his mouth equally full. "It's delithis."

Morgan just nodded, before resuming eating, Duane dining with a deliberate fastidiousness. Vivien continued to stuff the stew down her throat as fast as she could, Rick following her example with fervent enthusiasm. Living hand to mouth had led to hot food becoming the stuff of legend, yet here she was, devouring an actual cooked meal_. _

She shoved the last forkful of potato and onion into her mouth, before looking hopefully at Morgan for more, but he shook his head, gesturing regretfully at the now empty pot. Vivien put her fork down, unable to stop her face falling. Morgan stared at her for a moment, and then he suddenly looked away, almost guiltily. Rick caught the tail end of this exchange, glancing down at his empty plate with disappointment.

Undeterred, Vivien picked up her own plate, licking its surface clean like a dog, a habit unfortunately picked up from Doc. Somebody cleared their throat pointedly, making her freeze. She then slowly lowered her plate, only to see Rick, his face mortified, and Duane with his eyes round as saucers. But when her gaze met Morgan's, she finally put her plate properly back down on the table, feeling the first unfamiliar stirrings of shame.

"Sorry," she mumbled, the tips of her pointed ears turning crimson.

Morgan studied her for a long moment. "God, girl, your face," Morgan then said with great difficulty, before suddenly burying his face in his hands, a strange choking sound emanating from his throat. They all just sat there, watching his shoulders heave, until it hit them that he was actually _laughing._ After a minute or so of inexplicable mirth, he finally deigned to raise his head from his hands."Duane, son," Morgan wheezed, clutching his sides in an exaggerated fashion, "go an' get the tins of pineapple chunks, will you?"

Duane dabbed his mouth carefully with his napkin, before getting out of his seat with exaggerated decorum. Vivien's gaze dared to meet Morgan's again, and to her surprise, he grinned, a rusty, reluctant grin, but a grin nonetheless. And to her even greater surprise, she found herself grinning back.

_And no man is an island, oh this I know_  
><em>But can't you see, oh?<em>


	6. Prey For The Dead

**Prey For The Dead**

Vivien helped Morgan drag the mattress in from the bedroom, heaving it across the floor before dumping it down into a corner, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust. She crouched down, slightly winded by the effort, Morgan disappearing through the doorway that led out into the hall, muttering something about 'blankets'. It struck Vivien as odd how they'd now reached this tense middle ground, especially considering how it had all began. Morgan might believe it was the living against the living, but he seemed to be seeing now that it didn't always have to be that way. But she could also see what it was costing him to trust them, when he didn't know whether they could be trusted or not.

Morgan stalked back into the room, arms now laden with blankets and pillows. Vivien straightened up as he chucked them unceremoniously down onto the mattress. "That should do you both," he said brusquely.

"Thanks," she said just as brusquely, eying the maelstrom of bedding with some trepidation.

"Do you want a hand with sorting that?" Rick asked, coming up from the side of her.

"No, it's alright," she replied tersely, "but while you're here, you can pick what bit of the bed you want. Right or left, top or bottom?"

"What, we're sharing?"

"Don't worry, your virtue is safe with me," she said sarcastically, stooping down, ready to wrestle the sheets into submission. Rick just shook his head before retreating back to his chair, shoulders hunched slightly.

* * *

><p>Vivien kicked off her torn trainers, before sitting down, leaning her back against the wall, trying to ignore her aching muscles as she drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She risked a sideways glance at Rick, but he just ignored her, trying to pretend she wasn't present. They were sitting side by side on the mattress, the springs creaking in protest every time they so much as blinked, Rick practically falling off the edge in his attempt to put as much distance between them as possible. It would have been laughable if it wasn't so tragic.<p>

"So, Carl... He's your son?" Morgan then asked, shattering the silence.

Rick looked up, face confused.

"You said his name today," Morgan said, sounding irritated now.

Rick took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "He's a little younger than your boy," he said with some difficulty, pulling his blanket more tightly around his shoulders, clinging to the fabric like a life-belt.

"An' he's with his mother?" Morgan pressed.

"I... I hope so," Rick said, looking away, grey eyes filled with grief. Without thinking, Vivien reached for his hand, but he pulled it away from her, the silence that followed so sharp it cut her heart in half like paper. Morgan cleared his throat, looking awkward, Duane burying his head in his comic book. Rick averted his face, Vivien averting hers. He wasn't Doc, and she wasn't his wife. The time for holding hands at the end of the world was over.

"Dad," Duane then asked tentatively, still not looking up from his comic book.

"Hey," Morgan said, seizing the chance to change the subject. "What's up, son?"

"Did you ask him?" Duane said, voice gaining confidence now. "About how he got shot?"

Rick raised his head, looking faintly rankled.

"We've got a little bet goin' on," Morgan explained, grinning rustily, "my boy says you're a bank robber."

Rick stared at the pair of them for a long moment, his gaze dwelling on Duane the longest, before forcing a grin on his face. "Yeah... that's me," Rick said. "Deadly as Dillinger. _Kapow_." He mimed shooting Duane with his finger, making the little boy crease up with laughter, Morgan ruffling up his son's hair. But then his gaze met Morgan's, the false grin fading from his face. "Sheriff's deputy," he said quietly by way of real explanation.

Morgan just nodded, something flickering behind his dark eyes that Vivien couldn't understand. "What about you, girl?" Morgan fired at her, making her tense up. "How did you end up in this hell-hole?"

"I was travelling, with my friend," she said stiffly.

"Gap year?"

"Make it more like running away from reality."

"A sabbatical from life then?"

"Something like that."

Silence.

"So what were you before?" Morgan presses, making her tense up even further, wishing he'd just back the hell off.

"Toilet attendant."

"Family?"

"They're gone. Well before all this happened."

"What, you had kids?"

"Yeah, I did, and now she's dead," Vivien snapped, "anything else you'd like to know? Like how I tried to top myself? Or how I ran off with another man on my wedding day? Or that the moon really is made of cheese, but if you tried to eat it, it would turn you green?"

Duane laughed nervously, Morgan just staring at her like she was a complete fruitcake. Then a car alarm exploded into existence, making them all nearly piss themselves in terror. When the shock receded, it was only for Vivien to find Rick clinging to her like they were teenagers at a drive-in, Morgan clutching his son to his chest, trying to calm him down.

"Hey, it's okay, Daddy's here," Morgan soothed, leaning his cheek against his son's, tightening his arms around him.

"What the hell was that?" Vivien demanded, disentangling herself from Rick.

"It's nothing," Morgan said more to himself than her, his gaze riveted almost unseeingly on the boarded up window.

Vivien shakily got to her feet, sensing something was going down, something Morgan wasn't telling them.

"Sit the hell back down," Morgan hissed, glaring at her.

"Not until you tell me what the hell's going on," Vivien hissed back.

"One of them must've bumped a car, that's all," Morgan said, not meeting her eyes, "it happened before."

_It happened before. _And whatever it was, was happening again. Without a word, Vivien started snuffing out the candles, murdering their flickering light, instinctively sensing the darkness would shelter them from whatever it was stalking the shadows outside. Morgan got to his own feet, Rick following suit, Duane hastily kneeling in front of the small cabinet next to his mattress, his trembling fingers turning the flame down on his hurricane lamp, a small faint whistling noise emanating from it as he did so.

As Morgan crept over to the window, Rick close at his heels, Vivien blew out the rest of the candles, heart beating like a drum in her chest. watching as Duane wrapped his arms around his head, almost in expectation of a mortal blow. Glancing over his shoulder at his son, Morgan then undid one of the safety pins that clipped the makeshift curtain together, his action creating a spy-hole of sorts. Clutching a fistful of fabric, he peered through one of the gaps between the planks of wood, midnight striking his face, making it almost unrecognizable in the dim gloom.

"It's the blue car," Morgan said to Rick, moving aside to let him see, "same one as last time."

Rick looked through the gap, squinting slightly, before hastily stepping back, Vivien stepping forwards, Duane watching her with wide eyes. She grabbed a handful of the coarse fabric, the material almost bobbly to the touch, holding it away from her face as she watched what was left of the world outside, studying the six or seven Walkers shambling about in the road out front, the car alarm still blaring, amber lights flashing in erratic accompaniment.

"I think we're okay," Morgan said uneasily, glancing worriedly at his son again.

But Vivien remained rooted to the spot, watching as one of the Walkers then tilted its head back, staring up at the sky, something like a slack-jawed wonder spreading across its ravaged face at the sight of the stars high above it. "God help us," she whispered to herself.

"Ain't nothin' gonna help us now, girl," Morgan said quietly, running his hand over his severely strained face.

"That noise, won't it bring more of them?" Rick asked nervously.

"Oh, you finally deciding to join the party now?" Vivien snapped.

"Let it go," Morgan growled.

"Why should I? It's not you that's had to listen to his whining about the world ending," she said cruelly, enjoying making Rick cringe with the whiplash of her words.

"Nothin' we can do about the noise, not now," Morgan said, ignoring her. "Just have to wait it out till mornin'."

Vivien started violently as something brushed past her, but when she looked down, she saw it was just Duane. He undid the bottom safety pin, creating a spy-hole at his own height. Without thinking, she rested her hand on his shoulder, sensing his fear. In return, he put a small hand over hers, clinging to it. The Walkers were now surrounding the car, more appearing from all directions, staggering into view from both ends of the street. Duane was now clinging so hard to Vivien's hand, he was physically hurting her, his nails biting into her flesh. He seemed to be looking for something...

Or someone...

Then a woman shuffled across the road, the straps of her white night-dress slipping off her decaying shoulders, the sight of her making Duane gasp sharply in shock. She wandered towards the car, an almost smile playing on her twisted lips, dark hair sticking up in a wild cloud around her sunken face. Yet there was still a human quality to her features; you could still see who she used to be, and it was who she'd been that stabbed Vivien through the heart, the pieces of Morgan and Duane's broken existence falling into place.

"She's here," Duane said in a low voice, letting go of her hand, a sense of something almost like welcome in his words.

"Don't look," Morgan said, his own voice choked now. "Get away from the window."

Vivien tried to steer Duane away from the window as the woman headed towards the house. He didn't need to see this, what used to be coming back to what was no more. But he refused to budge, holding his ground.

"I said go!" Morgan snapped.

Duane tore himself out of her grip, running across the room before throwing himself face down onto his mattress, sobbing his heart out. As Morgan went to comfort his son, Rick glanced at Vivien, then the front door, both of them thinking the same thing. But it was Vivien who made the deciding move, heading hesitantly towards the front door, dragging her bare feet as she went, not wanting to face what should never be faced. She swallowed hard, before placing her palms against the wooden panelling, fixing one eye to the peep-hole, feeling the oddly reassuring warmth of Rick's breath on the back of her neck.

The woman came up the porch steps, still wearing that almost smile, the hem of her night-dress trailing behind her like some gruesome wedding dress. She took one step at a time, empty eyes focused on the door, her vacant gaze never leaving it. She looked like she was coming home, and in a way she almost was. Vivien glanced over her shoulder at Morgan and Duane, at those the woman still remembered, an atom of memory that flickered in and out of existence as she wandered the streets, hunger driving her on in her hopeless search for human flesh.

Vivien peered through the peep-hole again, only to see the woman was now right outside the door, staring up at something to the right. Close-up, she saw her eyes were brown, the exact same shade as Duane's, but they were flecked with red, scarlet scars scarring her sight, with deep hollows outlining her eyes, carving the canvass of her face into a skull. Then the woman's head darted forwards like a snake, then from side to side, those terrible eyes flickering from left to right, as though searching for her family like her son was searching for her. Her gaze focused on the door again, as if she knew Vivien was there despite the door dividing them.

The woman craned her neck forwards, mouth hanging open slightly, almost pendulously. Then she tilted her head to the side, looking almost coy as she dropped her gaze to the ground. Vivien watched as her mouth started to open and shut in a weird fluctuating manner, like she was trying to talk. Then a flash of movement caught Vivien's eye as another Walker ascended the porch, moving like an automaton, cutting a sharp contrast to the way the woman was acting, full of insidious intent.

This contrast was suddenly and strongly emphasized by a faint rattling. Vivien glanced down. The door handle was turning from side to side, a reminder of other nights spent in other houses not her home, the dead on the doorstep, and she backed away, unable to take anymore, brushing past Rick as she retreated to the mattress instead. Rick risked a glance through the peep-hole before beating his own hasty retreat, huddling beside Vivien like a scared child, his eyes wide and frightened. The door handle continued to twist and turn, and as they sat there, watching, waiting, Vivien wondered what the woman was; a mother trying to find her family, or a monster hunting her prey?

_You who do not remember_  
><em>Passage from the other world<em>  
><em>I tell you I could speak again: whatever<em>  
><em>returns from oblivion returns<em>  
><em>to find a voice<em>

* * *

><p>The car alarm continued to scream on, but the door handle had now fallen mercifully still. But still they sat there like statues, still staring at the door, still watching, still waiting. Then Vivien roused herself, forcing herself to focus, to get a grip.<p>

"Morgan," she said quietly, making his head snap up. "That woman..."

"My Jenny."

"Your wife?"

"She..." Morgan began, bowing his head, "she died in the other room, on that bed there." He gestured to the mattress she and Rick were sitting on. "There was nothin' I could do about it - that fever, man, her skin gave off a heat like a furnace." At this, Duane let out a choked sob, Morgan falling silent, holding his son close to him instead.

Then he raised his head, dark eyes etched with agony, making Vivien's heart contract painfully in her chest. "I should've put her down, man, I should've put her down," he whispered, "I know that, but..." He looked down at Duane, before glancing up again, almost like he was challenging them, daring them to dispute his decision. "She's the mother of my child, so I couldn't. I just couldn't," he said like a litany, a prayer, prey for the dead.

* * *

><p>"Wake up, Vivien. Wake up!"<p>

Vivien jolted upwards, hand reaching for a weapon she no longer had, for a man long gone. Then she slumped against the headboard, heart hammering in her chest. It took a long moment for reality to reassert itself, and even then, it still wasn't making any sense. Head spinning, she glanced around her, only to see she was back in the bedroom, the one Morgan's wife had died in. Confused beyond measure now, she swung her legs over the side of the bed before creeping across the floor, the wooden boards cold against her bare feet, the hem of her night-dress trailing behind her like an ivory ghost in the darkness.

She made her way into the hall, only to be confronted by the sight of half a dozen doors either half open or half closed. She pushed open the nearest one before stepping into the silent living room, the furniture draped with shadows, the curtains drawn and the front door locked, both bare of the planks of wood Morgan had nailed across them. Then the door handle started to twist and turn.

Vivien ran over to the door, pressing her eye to the peep-hole, palms resting against the wooden panelling. One the porch stood Doc, all that she'd loved, all that she'd had left, a man long gone, an imposter in his place, his thin face ravaged, the sins of the world written all over his skin. He continue to turn the handle, stooping as he did so, an old habit that even death couldn't destroy, the gesture breaking what was left of Vivien's heart.

But then he raised his gaze to hers, tilting his head to the side, the movement swift, snake-like, and she knew he knew she was there, waiting for him like she always waited. But now he was too late, like he was always too late, and this time she turned away from him, denying what was part of her. He could never be let in, always locked out, a ghost she couldn't cling to, the one who didn't want to go, because he was no longer there, about to do what he would have never done.

Then something tugged at Vivien's hand, making her glance down. Half her face was decayed, her eye hanging out, mouth lopsided, the skin pulled back from her lips, exposing her baby teeth and the gaps where they'd fallen out, her blonde hair bloodstained and matted. But the other half of her face was whole, normal, questioning almost, and Vivien backed away from her, for this was not her daughter, this was not her child, of her blood, her bone -

"Wake up, Vivien. Wake up!"


	7. Wait For Life

**Wait For Life**

_And I can't hear you call_  
><em>And I can't hear me shout<em>  
><em>I wait for it to break<em>  
><em>But it never comes around<em>

_Feel like I'm falling apart_  
><em>Feel like I'm falling apart<em>  
><em>Feel like I'm falling apart<em>

_Don't know me_  
><em>I'm lonely<em>  
><em>I'm lonely...<em>

Vivien sat on the window ledge, fag held in shaking hand, legs dangling as she inhaled sharply, body relaxing as the nicotine dulled the neurosis. In the car park down below, a Walker in police uniform stood baying for her blood, its rotting hands hopelessly clawing the air. It all felt rather like a twisted post-apocalyptic take on Romeo and Juliet. She flicked the ash aside, taking another long drag. It had been a while since she'd indulged in the dark stuff, but she had been caught by the craving and had no choice but to follow its call.

From somewhere down the hall, Vivien heard the sound of smashing glass, then Duane cheering like a cheerleader, Morgan's booming laugh echoing throughout the silent police station. She flung her fag away, watching it arc then fall far below, the ash speckling the Walker's shoulder like bird shit. That morning, she'd skipped Morgan's impromptu lesson on how to kill a Walker, leaving him to educate Rick in the art of slaying the snake gods, Rick nearly collapsing with the effort, Vivien slinking off to check out the rest of the neighbourhood instead, armed with only a spade she'd found lying in the long grass.

They'd tried to stop her from going, but she'd just shrugged off their restraining hands from her shoulders. She'd survived so far by keeping her head down and keeping on the move, all without having to shed a single drop of dead blood. Morgan had his own system of survival and if Rick wanted to follow his example, so be it. She followed her own path, even as she knew it was one she would soon stray from. There was only so far she could run.

But her desire to be alone and away from the others had outweighed her need for supplies, even though she had nothing but the clothes she stood up in. If Morgan was right, she'd been out on the road for two months now, and how much of that had been on her own, she wasn't sure. After losing Doc, the days and nights had bled into one, Vivien losing complete track of time. In all that time, she hadn't seen another living soul apart from Doc, and after he was gone, that had been it. She hadn't spoken to anyone since, and suddenly being around people again was something she was finding hard to acclimatize to.

Her search had been cut short by the living blockade of Walkers two blocks away, so she'd returned back to the Drake residence, only to find a dead carcass-cleaner cluttering up the drive, its skull smashed in. During her absence, Rick had discovered all the photo albums in his house were gone, leading him to reason that his wife had taken them when she'd fled with their son, proof they were out there, still alive somewhere. The next thing Vivien knew was that she was sitting in the back of Morgan's light blue jeep, wedged between father and son, the three of them sitting in uncomfortable silence as Rick drove them to the King County Sheriff's Department where he'd worked before the apocalypse came and kicked their arses to kingdom come.

During the drive, Rick had apprised Vivien of his plans to head to Atlanta, telling her about refugee centres and quarantine zones and CDCs, but Vivien had been unable to share his hope, not when she no longer had any of her own, her head still spinning at the turn her shitty life had taken. Before it had felt like she was caught between drifting and drowning, but now she was being swept into even stranger waters, dragging her further away from Doc than she already was. Rick was filled with purpose whilst she was filled with pain, pulling her in the opposite direction she wanted to go.

They'd then arrived at the police station where Vivien had kicked the emergency generator into gear, Rick and Morgan going to raid the armoury, dragging Duane along in their wake. Vivien had just moseyed around, poking her nose into places she probably shouldn't have. However, unleashing the electricity had meant she could now flip a light switch on and off for the sheer hell of it. Then there was the small fact of being able to take a hot shower, something that was making Rick smugger than a WAG on her wedding day. Vivien lit up another fag, still slightly dazed at the fact there was still such a thing as hot running water left in this wreck of a world.

"Vivien?"

She started violently, grabbing the window-frame for support. The next thing she knew, she was being dragged backwards, backside hitting floor foremost. Head reeling, she pushed the hair out of her face, nearly setting her split ends alight as she did so, Rick hastily snatching the fag from her fingers before flinging it out of the window.

"What the hell are you doing?" he spat, involuntarily clutching his side.

"What the hell are _you_ doing?" Vivien retorted, getting to her feet, Rick doing a double-take.

As his stunned gaze travelled over Vivien, taking her in from top to toe, something in his shocked stare made her fingers pluck nervously at the corner of the corset style top she had on. Before taking a shower, she'd gone on a little looting spree in the women's changing room, tearing the joint up with a practiced hand. She'd trashed the lockers, looking for contraband, scoring the cigs and some cop's off-duty clothes, all black lace and crimson velvet, a Gothic get-up that Vivien immaturely felt flattered her morose state of mind.

Vivien had looted the lot, teaming it with spray-on skinny jeans torn at the knees and battered black silver studded knee high boots. She'd found some make-up to match, heavy kohl and blood red lipstick, leaving her dripping dark hair to fall down to the small of her back in bedraggled black waves, fancying herself in the mirror as some tragic warrior princess at the end of the world. But now she was seeing herself through Rick's eyes, his amused derision stripping the illusion away, leaving only the pitiful bones of her humiliation behind instead.

"What's wrong with you?" Rick then said quietly, wrongfooting her.

"What do you mean?" Vivien snapped, taking a step back.

"Ever since this morning, you've... I don't know, you've not been yourself," he said hesitantly, taking a step forwards.

"You don't know me, Rick, so don't presume to know when I'm not being myself."

"That's what I'm talking about," he said almost eagerly, striding towards her. "From the moment I've met you, you've been all attitude and cheek, always answering back, sticking two fingers up at the world. Now look at you, all quiet and withdrawn, hiding in here like some hermit" -

- "You have a cheek to call me a hermit," she retorted. "Yesterday you were like Robinson Crusoe, barely able to speak without either crying or snapping someone's head off, denying what was staring you in the face, and now you've gone all John Wayne, oh-look-at-me-I'm-so-ready-to-get-down-and-dirty-with-the-apocalypse."

He just stared at her, shocked.

"All this," she said, gesturing to the light brown police shirt, dark trousers and stupid cowboy hat he now had on, the sight of his freshly shaven face offending her in a way she couldn't explain, "is just a front, a facade, a _pretence. _Inside you're screaming, just like me, except I'm daring to show it now. All that attitude and the cheek, that's my pretence. That's how I get through the day; how I deal with having the dead trying to take a chunk out of me; how I get past having to join forces with a stranger that was going to sink a bullet into our brains. That's my armour, Rick, a carapace, a _shell._ It's not who I am, not really, so don't stand there and say I'm not being myself when that isn't me at all."

"Is that why you're in that ridiculous get-up then?" Rick fired back. "Did you just decide to don another layer of armour, another front to hide behind?"

"It's the very latest in survivor chic, ignoramus."

"Sure."

"Why are you here anyways?" she asked, pretending to actually care.

"I used to work here."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that fun fact," Vivien snapped, "but that's not what I meant."

"Morgan and Duane are raiding the vending machines."

"So?"

"Thought you'd might like to join in."

"What, because destruction is my forte?"

"I saw what you did to the lockers."

"A true masterpiece of mayhem."

Silence.

"Are you in then?" Rick then said, starting to get pissed off now.

"I'm not a child, Rick," Vivien snapped, "you can't pacify me with chocolate."

"I was just asking" -

"Why are you really here, Rick?" she said suddenly, cutting to the chase, sick of pissing about.

Rick tilted the brim of his cowboy hat back, looking very small all of a sudden, like a little boy. "It's about Atlanta," he said slowly, swallowing hard.

"What about it?"

"I want you to come with me. To Atlanta, I mean," Rick said in a rush.

Silence.

"I don't know, Rick," Vivien then said slowly. "When this stuff all started, Doc said the cities would be the first to fall - that we should stick to the suburbs and back-waters, and that's what we did. Going to Atlanta... we might be walking into a death-trap."

"I know," Rick admitted reluctantly, "but if there's anything left, it would be there, in Atlanta, at that refugee centre. I have to check - I have to _know_, Vi."

"I know but" -

- "But what?"

"Doc... wasn't exactly fond of army grunts," Vivien said, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. "He said when the shit hit the fan, they'd show their true colours."

"I don't care what your damn Doc _said_ or _liked_," Rick snapped. "I'm going to find my family" -

- "Something went down in that hospital you were in," Vivien said, cutting across him, her voice cracking, "I saw the bullet holes, the blood, the heavy military presence. Who's to say the same thing won't have happened in Atlanta" -

- "Don't say that," Rick spat. "Don't you ever say that to me!"

Vivien looked away, biting her lip.

"I'm going to Atlanta, and that's it," Rick said quietly, making her glance up at him. "Whether you come with me or not, is completely up to you. I'm not gonna twist your arm up your back about it."

"Why ask then?"

"I... I don't want to go out there on my own," he admitted unwillingly. "I'd feel a hella lot better if I had some company."

"What about Morgan and Duane?"

"They're not coming. Not yet anyways."

"So I'm your last resort then? A sort of cheap consolation prize" -

- "I only asked them to come with us because I thought it would be better if we all stuck together, that's all," Rick spat, running his hand down his face again.

"Us?"

"Yeah, me and you."

"But I haven't agreed to come to Atlanta."

"Well, will you?"

Vivien studied him for a long moment, the way he was holding his side, how pale his face was beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. She could tell by the set of his jaw he wasn't going to be swayed from his decision, his grey eyes as hard and unrelenting as flint, something about the contrast between his fragile physical state and strong will deciding her there and then.

"Look, I'll come with you," she said abruptly. "But as soon as you find your family, I'm gone. I've got my own to find, but it'd be like sending a chicken to the slaughter letting you go out there alone."

"I don't need a bodyguard, Vi."

"I might not have killed any Walkers, but I've survived so far," Vivien snapped, "so I must be doing something right somewhere. Don't mock the master, Grimes."

"You nearly bought it back in the hospital," Rick reminded her, "but I saved your ass."

"And I hauled your arse out of that hell-hole," Vivien retorted. "Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," Rick said, grey eyes gleaming with reluctant amusement. "I remember thinking you were the maddest bitch I'd ever met - I still think that actually."

"Mad or not, I'm still here," Vivien said, "I've made it so far."

"So far," Rick said quietly. "But maybe it's time to stop flying solo, Vi. You need someone to watch your back, and I need someone to watch mine. We've made an okay team so far" -

- "So far," Vivien said bitterly, "so far."

_But I can't let you in_  
><em>And I can't keep you out<em>  
><em>I wait for life to win<em>  
><em>But it never comes around...<em>

* * *

><p>Vivien stood beside the battered looking police car, tilting her head to the side as she read the motto engraved along the car door, <em>To Protect and Serve, <em>the words making something inside her crack, because that's all they were now, words, mindless, useless, empty words echoing what should not be - she savagely booted the boot, hurting her foot in the process, the pain shooting like arrows up her leg, Duane looking at her like she was insane. She just ignored him like she tried to ignore everything else; the sweat dripping down her spine; how her body started at the slightest sound; the way her hands were woefully empty of a weapon.

The door behind them burst open, a fire exit with a yellow sign above it declaring the legend _SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT, PERSONNEL ONLY. _Rick strode towards them, laden with bags, Morgan close at his heels, a rucksack slung over his shoulder, a bolt-action rifle with a scope slung over the other, the door slamming shut behind them. As Morgan then went over to the jeep, Vivien saw he was now sporting a baseball cap and little goatee, the sight of them irrationally making her hackles rise.

Rick rounded the side of the police car, dumping his bags on the ground, their contents clanking together. After the almost stand-off in the staff room, Rick had turned and left the room, leaving Vivien torn between doing what she considered as her duty and her own desires. She glanced down at her scraped knuckles, testament to the fact she'd punched the wall after he walked out, a knee jerk reaction bitterly regretted. She didn't need Rick Grimes. She didn't need anybody. She just needed to find Doc, dead or alive, but her conscience wouldn't let her leave a lone man take on this world alone. And now here she was, with hatred simmering in her heart and pity poisoning her veins.

"You okay, Vi?" Rick said, leaning his elbow on the roof of the police car.

"Drop the Officer Friendly routine," she snapped, "it's getting boring."

"You know," he mused, looking at a point past her head, grey eyes scrunching up against the glare of the sunlight, "your friend might be in Atlanta as well."

"He could be anywhere."

"He could be in Atlanta."

Vivien raised her eyebrows, Rick just looking at her, his grey eyes gazing into hers, almost like he was trying to find a foothold in the fear threatening to engulf them both. But there was no use in trying to seek safety in strangers, for there was none to be found, least of all with her. There was no shelter in her shadow, only further darkness. Maybe if they hadn't met, he might have died in that hospital, wandering aimlessly along its endless corridors, searching for an absolution. Or he might have got out and died on the road, trying to find his way home. But then again, he might have made it on his own. Maybe he would make it on his own now, but her conscience wouldn't let her take that chance.

Rick then glanced at the ground, his face hidden from sight by the sweeping brim of his hat, Vivien looking away as well, the moment becoming unbearably vital. Morgan and Duane approached them, almost nervously, and Vivien forced herself to face them, the foe now turned friend. Morgan stepped forwards, pulling something out of his rucksack, something that rustled and rippled in the faint breeze. He handed her the plastic bag, Vivien taking it, the gesture oddly anchoring her amongst the chaos.

"It's just some bottles of water an' granola bars, with some chocolate an_'_ chips for maybe a midnight feast or somethin'," Morgan said awkwardly, zipping up his rucksack again. "Got them out of one the vendin' machines back there."

"Midnight feasts, huh?" Vivien said, peering inside the bag, remembering 'chips' was American for crisps. "I think you've been reading too much Enid Blyton."

"Never heard of him. Is he some chat show host or somethin'?" Morgan asked, confused.

She snorted, before shaking her head, fighting back the tears, her grip tightening round the handles of the plastic bag for dear life. He was trying to build bridges, bridges she'd end up breaking, bridges that would never be. Rick glanced at the two of them, and he rounded the side of the police car, subtly drawing the spotlight onto him instead.

"One thing, Morgan," Rick said, gesturing to the bolt-action rifle slung over Morgan's shoulder, "just remember to conserve your ammo. It goes faster than you think, especially at target practice."

Morgan nodded, the two men exchanging a glance, a glance Vivien didn't understand the meaning of. "Duane," Morgan then said suddenly to his son, "take this to the jeep." He handed his rucksack over Duane who took it, scooting off at great speed over to the vehicle. Morgan watched him go before turning to Vivien, his face serious, almost sombre, his dark eyes filled with worry.

"Rick told me you're plannin' to hit the road on your own," he says, brow furrowing. "This ain't a world to be on your own in, least of all a young woman."

"I have to find my friend," Vivien said simply, "so once Rick finds his family, I'm gone. End of."

"Told you," Rick said in a low voice. "Stubborn as a mule."

"And I kick like one as well," Vivien said, smiling sweetly.

Morgan let out a low whistle. "That's you told, boy," Morgan grinned.

"Well and truly," Rick said lightly. "Are you sure you won't come along?" Rick then asked Morgan in an undertone, his voice cracking slightly.

Morgan took off his baseball cap, running his hand over his head, brow furrowing even further. "A few more days," he said, "by then Duane will know how to shoot an_'_ I won't be so rusty."

Rick considered Morgan for a moment before turning and opening the police car door, stooping down and pulling out a Walkie-Talkie, Morgan looking at it almost mockingly. _No wonder, it's like something out of the Stone Age_, Vivien thought darkly_. _Rick pushed it into Morgan's hand, the Walkie whining as he did so. "You've got one battery," Rick explained, "I'll turn mine on a few minutes every day at dawn. You get up there, that's how you find me."

"You think ahead."

"Can't afford not to, not anymore," Rick said grimly, turning his gaze on Vivien.

She held her hands up, the handle of the plastic bag sliding over her wrist and down her arm. "I don't want a Walkie-Talkie, Woody," she said as Morgan grinned wryly at the Toy Story reference, "I'm not hauling some brick around with me."

"No, that privilege is mine," Rick said darkly, glaring at her.

"Yeah, yeah," Vivien said, rolling her eyes. "Keep thinking ahead, Hutch. I'll deal with the undead."

"How you gonna get out of here, huh?" Rick said suddenly, rounding on her. "On foot? Maybe a unicyle? And what about a weapon, hmm? Or are you just gonna just shake your ass at the undead and hope that does the trick, like some hoochie mamma trying to pick up a customer at the side of the road so her kids won't go to bed hungry that night?"

Vivien just gawped at him.

"That's why I think ahead," Rick said grimly, going back round the side of the police car, disappearing from sight as he knelt down, unzipping one of the bags he brought out with him. He straightened up, slamming a hand gun and two small cardboard boxes of bullets down on top of the car roof. "It's just a case of pointing and pulling the trigger," Rick said, ignoring her outraged face, "nothing to it."

"I think there's more to it than that," Vivien snapped, "You've got to know how to clean your weapon as well as how to assemble it and identify its ammunition on top of actually loading the damn thing."

"It's not an exam you're sitting - I'm just giving you a goddamn gun."

"I don't do guns."

"I don't care what you do," Rick said, "you're taking that gun."

"And you can just take that gun and shove it up your arse, sunshine," she retorted. "I'm not into all that gangster shit."

Rick turned away, looking like he was going to explode.

"I guess this is it, then," Morgan then said hesitantly as Duane came creeping back over, "a partin' of the ways."

"Until Atlanta," Rick said quietly, glaring at Vivien.

Morgan repressed a grin. "You're a good man, Rick," he then said, shaking hands with him, "I hope you find your wife and son."

Rick just nodded, before stooping down so he was eye level with Duane. "Be seeing you, Duane," Rick said, shaking Duane's hand as well. "Take care of your old man."

"Yes, sir," Duane grinned.

Rick straightened up, staring at the far horizon, giving Vivien a moment to say her own good-byes.

"Bye Duane," she said awkwardly.

"Bye," Duane said just as awkwardly.

"Morgan," Vivien said formally, inclining her head in his direction, ready to make a graceful exit, but before she could, he took her face between his big hands, his lips brushing her brow, startling her. There was no passion present, just a deep-seated emotion she couldn't decipher. Then he let go of her, slipping something into her jean pocket, something small and heavy.

"Take care, Vivien," he said gruffly, "stay safe. Stay alive."

Vivien nodded, swallowing hard.

He looked at her for a long moment before putting his baseball cap back on, half turning away from her, looking like he was going to say something else, but not sure if he should. "Better than a butter-knife, girl," he said, saying it anyways, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "better than a butter-knife."


	8. I've Got A War In My Mind

**I've Got A War In My Mind**

The horizon shimmered in the heat, an indistinct assurance of tomorrow, Vivien rolling down the car window, the breeze billowing through her black hair as Rick drove on, bypassing what used to be. The fields flashed past, green fading into gold. Ignoring Rick's raised eyebrow, Vivien lit up a fag, needing yet another nicotine hit. She hadn't bargained on this, babysitting some country boy cop fresh out of a coma, but this was the hand fate had dealt her, and she just had to deal with it.

"So how did you end up in Georgia?" Rick asked quietly, glancing at her.

"Heard about a diner job in Albany," she said, indigo eyes distant as she flicked the ash out of the window, "so I chased it down. Was due to start my first shift that day when the shit hit the fan. Before I knew what was happening, Doc was hauling my arse out of there. We spent a week holed up in our motel until the place got overrun and then we hit the road, and that was that."

"Thought you were a watcha call it - toilet attendant?"

"That's my trade, but in the Land of Opportunity, you've got to be able to turn your hand to anything," Vivien pointed out dryly, "not everybody needs a shit-shoveller."

Rick fell silent, not sure how he could compete with such an sentence.

"I never planned on getting stranded in Peach State," Vivien suddenly burst out, "it sounds cliche, but I was going to go to New York and try to do something with my shitty life - what, I don't know, but it would be something, you know?"

Rick just nodded, focusing on the road ahead instead, the desperate note in her voice making him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"I'm sorry," Vivien said, startling him, "I'm running off my mouth, here, boring the polyester pants off you."

"Whatever you're doing, you sure ain't boring me," Rick said with a wry grin, "but what you mean by pants, I'm not so sure."

"Trousers versus undergarments," Vivien said, taking another puff, "yet another cultural divide to cross."

Rick just grinned, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

"It feels... strange speaking to you," Vivien said slowly, startling him again, "I haven't spoken to anyone since Doc."

"It's only natural to feel that way," Rick said quietly, glancing at her, "but you don't have to be alone, Vi, not anymore. Once we find my family, you'd be more than welcome to stay with us, if you wanted to" -

He suddenly let out a shout as a deer bounded out in front of him, his hands frantically swinging the steering wheel round as he tried to avoid hitting the animal, the car arcing wildly, flinging Vivien sideways, the tyres screeching as they tried to gain traction, only for the car to crash to a standstill somewhere between cornfield and concrete, the silence reigning like death.

* * *

><p>"Rick?" Vivien whispered, her voice cracking as she shook his shoulder.<p>

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Rick said in a rush, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than her.

"I guess Bambi's your favourite film," Vivien observed shakily, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

"Why else would I wreck our ride?" Rick retorted, trying and failing to start the ignition.

"Shit," Vivien cursed, slumping back in her seat.

"Shit doesn't even cover it," Rick said, sounding like he was on the verge of tears.

"How's your side?"

"Still hurts like a bitch," Rick said, before suddenly snapping and thumping the dashboard with his fist, making Vivien jump violently. But as he did, he doubled up, clutching his side on cue, his face contorting with pain. "Now it hurts like a bitch getting bitch-slapped by another bitch," he gasped, his cowboy hat now askew over one eye.

"I think this qualifies as Worst Date Ever," Vivien spat, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Budge up, and let me see if I can get this bad-boy started."

Rick leant back as she leant down, repeatedly turning the key in the ignition, her face determined.

"You know, usually I'm in the back of a police car not the front," Vivien said from between gritted teeth, sweat starting to bead on her brow. "It makes quite the change."

"I bet it does," Rick said, shutting his eyes, letting the pain wash over him.

"This isn't working," Vivien said, straightening up, "it looks like we're going to have to walk" -

A Walker suddenly grabbed a hank of Vivien's hair, nearly tearing it out at the roots as it yanked her backwards. She was almost halfway through the car window head and shoulders first when Rick lunged forwards, dragging her back, saving her life at the cost of a clump of ebony hair. As she collapsed somewhere near the passenger footwell, he smashed the Walker's grasping hand aside before hastily rolling the window up, almost crushing Vivien as he did so.

"Get the hell off me!" Vivien shrieked, shoving him off her.

"Hey, I just saved you from getting scalped!" Rick bellowed, his face bloodless.

"It feels like the fucking opposite, man!" Vivien snapped, grabbing her head with both hands.

Something thumped the window, making them start violently, Vivien throwing herself forwards. Through the grime-streaked glass, she saw it was a woman with half its face ripped off, along with most of its hair, ironically clutching a clump of Vivien's own hair in its decaying hand. Vivien straightened up, panic pounding through her veins, a horrible realization hitting her like a ten-ton truck that this was it; this was the moment she stopped running, where she sacrificed everything she was and ever would be.

"Is that a woman?" Rick said stupidly, completely losing his head.

"It's not the AA, that's for sure," Vivien snapped, trying to stand her ground as the Walker rammed what was left of its face against the glass. "Just shut up and stay put."

Taking sharp shallow breaths, she reached for Morgan's flick-knife, pulling it out of her jean pocket with a shaking hand. Hearing his voice in her reeling head, _it's better than a butter knife, girl, _she wound down the window, instinctively trying to shove the blade into the Walker's brain through the narrow gap. But its snapping teeth nearly took off the top of her fingers, making her snatch her hand back, the flick-knife slipping from her grasp, falling to the ground outside instead.

Vivien slumped back in her seat, Rick reaching for his gun, Vivien halting him with her hand. He stared at her, Vivien shaking her aching head at him. Jaw tightening, he stowed his gun back in his holster, waiting to see what trick she would pull next. Suddenly there was a bang on the back window, making them jump again, Vivien realising that unless she did something - and something fast - this car was going to end up as their coffin.

Trying to ignore the sound of fingernails scraping against the glass, Vivien took a deep breath before flinging open the car door, knocking the Walker aside. In the few split-seconds it took for it to regain its balance and launch itself at her, she was dropping to the ground and grabbing the flick-knife, the blood beating in her ears like a drum -

As though in a trance, she grabbed the Walker by its bloodied throat, pinning it to the side of the car, somehow stabbing it through the skull, its body going slack in her grip. All of time seemed to slow down, the blood dripping off the edge of the blade in slow motion. Vivien let go, taking a stunned step back as the Walker slumped to the ground, before catching a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, reacting to it too late.

Out of nowhere the other Walker was suddenly on top of her, making her crash against the car, screaming as teeth scraped against her throat. Panic propelled her sideways, making her twist free, almost throwing the Walker off her, knocking it to the ground, turning the tables so she was on top of it instead, struggling with its flailing hands, plunging the blade into its brain again and again until it fell still.

For a long moment Vivien stared at its wasted face framed by long red bloodmatted hair, studying the vacant eyes and mouth contorted into a lopsided snarl, her gaze dwelling longest on the silver locket resting in the hollow of its ravaged neck.

After watching Vivien for a long moment, Rick then got out of the police car, hauling the bags out after him, cursing under his breath as they got stuck in the car doorway. Vivien hesitated before unclasping the silver locket around the dead woman's neck and shoving it into her pocket, not quite sure what she was going to do with it or why she was taking it in the first place.

With some difficulty, Vivien then got to her feet again, her trembling legs nearly giving way beneath her, Rick handing her the plastic bag of food, not wanting to say anything, the look on her face silencing him. Together, they turned away from the car, clambering through the corn until they hit concrete again. It was only until they reached the top of the road that the reality of what just happened hit Vivien in its full horror, and she turned and hurled all over the sunbaked ground, the crows soaring high above them, mocking the world below.

* * *

><p>Vivien slammed the door to the people-carrier shut, recoiling as the sound shattered the silence, echoing through the still air. For a moment, she just stood there, waiting, holding the flick-knife half raised by her side. But nothing stirred, nothing came. She stepped over the remains of some sort of animal before making her way forwards again, searching through the satchel as she moved, throwing away the junk inside, shoving their paltry supplies into it instead.<p>

Rick turned around at the sound of her approaching footsteps, his grey gaze travelling over her tired face, the sight of it making his brow furrow with concern. But again, he held his tongue, sensing anything he said would cause the storm to break. She strode past him, slinging the satchel strap across her chest, Rick following her. They'd been walking for a while now, following the rhythm of the road, coming across burnt out wrecks and crashed cars, avoiding the former and looting the latter - not that there was much to be found. The most they'd scavenged was the satchel and a battered can of Red Bull.

So far they'd managed to avoid coming across anymore carcass-cleaners, and Vivien was hoping against hope that it stayed that way. Her aching head was still reeling from before, the blood crusting her skin and clothes in black jagged streaks. She didn't want this; to walk with a weapon in her hand, ready to sink it into a skull. But you could only run and hide for so long. The time for killing had come, hunt or be hunted.

_And I will stay up through the night  
>Let's be clear, won't close my eyes<br>And I know that I can survive  
>I'll walk through fire to save my life<em>

* * *

><p>It was the sight of the row of spikes that stopped them, Rick circling the station-wagon, taking in the burst tyres, studying the scene with an expert eye. Any other time, Vivien would have scoffed and called him Hutch, but not now, not with the locket weighing her down. She wished she'd just left it where it had lain, but it was too late now, like it was a part of her. The first Walker she'd dispatched had been done in a state of shock, but the second had been like bloodsport, a strange savagery seizing her, a savagery the locket seemed to encapsulate, a constant reminder of what she was now capable of doing in this world.<p>

She trailed after Rick, studying the station-wagon, trying to see it through his eyes. All the doors had been flung open, lending the scene a sense of panic. The skid marks were fresh, implying this was recent, making Vivien involuntarily back away from the vehicle. Some sort of trap had been sprung here, but whether the prey had evaded the predator, she couldn't tell. But this was the work of the living, not the dead, and Vivien didn't think they should hang around waiting for its architect to show up.

Grabbing Rick's arm, she dragged him away, ignoring his protests, turning a deaf ear to them until he fell silent, their footsteps echoing oddly through the air, soles scraping over asphalt, only slowing to a crawl when they could no longer see the pranged vehicle. As they moved, Vivien reached inside the satchel, passing Rick two packets of crisps, only taking a bashed in chocolate bar for herself. The way he kept clutching his side was worrying the hell out of her, not knowing if it was just a passing pain or something more serious.

Tick dragged past, Vivien taking the bag of guns from Rick, carrying it instead of him, Rick rationing what was left of the water, taking small sips so there was more for Vivien, who in turn didn't drink anything at all apart from the rare mouthful here and there, leaving what was left for Rick, creating a contradiction that was slowly driving Rick round the bend.

But still they limped on, fields surrounding them on all sides, the sun beating down on the back of their necks, the brim of Rick's cowboy hat sheltering him from the worst of it. Vivien raised her head, shielding her eyes with her hand, stumbling to a halt at the sight of the crossroads looming up ahead, dividing their future in four. Forcing her feet forwards, Vivien went to meet it, Rick right behind her, his shadow becoming lost in hers. It was only when they drew closer that they saw the destruction. In the centre of the junction, the remains of several Walkers lay sprawled on the ground, heads bashed in, limbs broken.

Swallowing hard, Vivien edged round the gore and guts, almost breaking her neck by slipping on some brain matter. The stench was indescribable, making Morgan's toilet fragrant in comparision. Seeing the look on her face, Rick clasped her shoulder, giving it a brief brotherly squeeze, making her glance up at him, her thick black brows drawing together in silent question. Rick hastily drew back his hand, suddenly scared she thought he was making a move on her, taking advantage of the way she was alone with him.

But to his relief, she just nodded at him, Rick nodding back, his face sombre beneath the brim of his hat. As she backed away from the carnage, he studied it, noting there were no stab wounds or bullet holes, indicating a blunt instrument had been used during the fight. But what caught his attention the most was the fresh blood slick and gleaming on the ground, leaving a crimson trail the cop in him instinctively wanted to follow.

"Don't even think about it," Vivien said, her voice cracking.

"They might need our help," Rick said, rounding on her.

"Your family might need our help more."

"If it were my family I'd want someone to help them" -

- "Look, whoever these people are, if they were here, I would help them," Vivien spat, shaking from head to foot, "but they're not here, they're long gone, and I sure as hell don't know where. If we follow that trail of blood, God knows where it will lead, Grimes - I for one don't want to find out."

"To protect and serve," Rick said more to himself than her, "that's what I swore to do."

"How can you protect them?" Vivien said in disbelief. "These people have been dragged off the roadside, and not by the dead either" -

- "It might be Doc out there," Rick said suddenly, startling her. "It might be him who needs your help"-

- "Don't you dare say that!" Vivien exploded, face feral. "Don't you ever say that to me!"

They stared at one another, the cornstalks rippling in the breeze, a symphony of movement, flashing like gold fire in the sun. Life reigned here, not death, and still they stood there, staring at one another, almost as if they were waiting for deliverance.


	9. Welcome To Hell

**Author's Note:** In response to bridget237's query, Vivien is twenty years old. A one-shot for this story, _The Other Side_, can be found under the 'My Stories' section of my profile.

* * *

><p><strong>Welcome To Hell<strong>

Vivien stared down at the tops of her boots baptized in black blood, the sight turning her stomach.

"Why are you walking away from this, Vi?" Rick argued, his voice becoming raised, carrying across the rippling cornfields.

"Do I look like I'm walking away?" Vivien hissed.

"You didn't walk away from me," Rick said as though she hadn't spoken.

"But I still could," Vivien snapped, setting the bag of guns down on the ground.

"You won't," Rick said, his jaw tightening, "you could have walked back at the hospital, but you didn't. Same goes for the Drake house and the police station - you could have cut and run, but you didn't. You stayed and saddled yourself with me. Why, I don't know - maybe it was because of my boyish good looks, huh? Those Paul Newman eyes of mine turning your head" -

- "Don't flatter yourself," Vivien muttered, turning away from him, pushing her black hair back with an agitated hand. But just as she did, a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye, making her raise her head. Then Walkers were suddenly everywhere, staggering out of the cornfields and flooding the road, a never-ending stream of inhumanity.

"Shit-shit-shit," Vivien whispered, grabbing Rick's arm. "_Run!"_

* * *

><p><em>Dig up her bones but leave the soul alone<em>  
><em>Let her find a way to a better place<em>  
><em>Broken dreams and silent screams<em>  
><em>Empty churches with soulless curses<em>  
><em>We found a way to escape the day...<em>

They stumbled through the cornfield, the dead hard on their heels, the bag of guns lying by the roadside, long-lost. There had been no time to grab it, and it would have only slowed them down if they had. But still Rick rued its loss, guns being like gold, his only gun now useless, empty of ammo. He staggered, Vivien catching his hand and hauling him on, jerking his side, a gasp of pain unwillingly leaving his lips.

In the distance, a church spire spiralled into the sky. There were no bullets left, only blood, so they headed in the direction of the steeple, seeking its sanctuary. They tripped and fell, lungs and limbs screaming in silent protest, but still they fought on, shoving stalks aside, only looking forwards and never back. And all the time they were behind them, like shadows, like the fear that stalked Vivien in the middle of the night.

She shoved aside a Walker that suddenly loomed to her left, dragging Rick with her as she ran, her breath catching painfully in her chest. There seemed to be no way out of the field, a maze of the dead, a labyrinth of loss she would never leave, but then their feet were sinking into overgrown grass, not soil, Vivien glancing up, only to see they were standing in the shadow cast by the church, its windows shuttered tight like an arc ready to set sail from an unforgiving world.

"_Shit,_" Vivien said for the umpteenth time. They were surrounded by the dead, buried and unburied, walking and not, ancient graves and guts littering the ground. A holocaust had happened here. Gritting her teeth, Vivien grabbed Rick again, Rick grabbing his side in turn, setting off at a sprint, wildly weaving around Walkers as they went, avoiding their outstretched grasping hands.

They crossed the pavilion, tripping over bones, Vivien's head spinning, fireworks of fear exploding behind her eyes as she threw herself against the church doors, spine slumping against the weather-beaten wood. Rick rattled the heavy handle with desperate hands, but the doors stayed steadfastly shut. Vivien glanced over her shoulder, the blood pounding in her veins as the Walkers staggered towards them. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. They were surrounded on all sides, the dead coming from all directions -

"Come on!" Rick bellowed, grabbing her wrist and dragging her round the side of the building. Where he was taking her, Vivien didn't know, and she didn't care, as long as it was as far away from here, this hell, as possible. Rick made for the trees, the woods promising protection, his hand clutching his side again, pain ricocheting through him. As they stumbled into the road, there was the sudden sound of screeching tyres, incongruous and alien, a sign of a civilization that no longer existed.

"Get in!" the driver yelled through the car window, the sun striking his fair hair like an anvil.

Rick and Vivien needed no further encouragement, the pair of them diving into the backseat, barely noticing the crisp black police uniforms of the driver and his companion. The police car took off, Rick doing up Vivien's seat-belt for her, Vivien slapping his hands away, looking at him as though he was mad. He just looked at her as if _she _was mad, the driver catching this bit of byplay in the car mirror, a grin spreading across his square face.

"Still treatin' you like you're two, huh?" he said, trying to be friendly. "That's brothers for you though, ain't it?"

Vivien just stared at him, her head still spinning at their narrow escape, only now realising that they might have just leapt from the frying pan into the fire. Rick glanced at her, and then the driver, his grey gaze flickering over the police radio clipped to his shoulder and the polished gold badge on his bullet proof vest. Rick jerked his head at the driver's uniform, rearranging his face into admiring lines.

"That's a smart uniform, you got there," he said, doing up his own seatbelt, "mine's a little quaint in comparison." He flicked the brim of his cowboy hat for extra emphasis.

"Well, Atlanta P.D. has always been ahead of the competition," the driver boasted, "even in the sartorial stakes."

"Atlanta?" Vivien burst out.

"Why, is that a problem, honey?" the other cop said, finally speaking up.

"Don't 'honey' me, _honey_," Vivien flared up.

"We just saved your sweet little ass, _sweetheart_" -

- "Hey," Rick said, shooting Vivien a warning glance, "we're all a little strung out, and no wonder, but let's just keep things friendly, yeah?"

"I didn't start it, bud," the other cop said, shrugging his shoulders, "she did."

"What's yankin' your chain about Atlanta?" the driver said to Vivien, his face curious.

"We're lookin' for family in Atlanta," Rick said before she could answer, his voice cracking slightly, "heard about a refugee centre there where they might be."

The other cop scoffed.

"What's so funny?" Vivien demanded.

"Pack it in, Gorman," the driver spat, looking angry.

"Yeah, what's so funny?" Rick reiterated, his jaw tightening.

"There's nothin' left in Atlanta, no refugee centres, no nothin'," the driver said with some difficulty. "There ain't no army anymore, nobody. It's all over. Nobody and nothin' is gonna come ridin' to our rescue. We're alone in this."

"You better not let Dawn hear you say that," Gorman said, picking at his teeth.

"Dawn's deludin' herself," the driver retorted. "The government's gone - it's all gone."

Vivien glanced at Rick, taking in the terrible sight of his bloodless face and bulging eyes. "How do you know all this?" Vivien said, grabbing Rick's arm, her fingernails digging into his bare flesh.

"We were in Atlanta the night it got bombed," the driver said, his hands gripping the steering wheel for almost dear life, "and we've been tryin' to scrape an existence out of what's left of it ever since."

"You're based in Atlanta, then?" Vivien snapped. "That's where you taking us?"

The driver nodded.

"Did the army not evacuate everyone when they bombed the city?" Vivien said, her voice shaking.

"There was no time," the driver said, his own voice shaking now, "we got the order to evacuate, but it was too late."

"What's your set-up?"

"We're just a bunch of law enforcement officers and civilians holed up in a hospital," the driver said weakly. "There ain't no official big-wigs in charge, just me and my lieutenant back at base."

"But you're still standing," Vivien said, her blue eyes oddly blazing now, "you're still holding on, even if it's by the edge of your teeth - the same could go for this refugee centre."

"If you say so, sweetheart," Gorman said lazily.

"Do you know where this refugee centre is?" the driver said hastily, glaring at Gorman.

"No," Rick said quietly, his face still bloodless.

"Well, maybe we can help with you that," the driver said, gnawing his lower lip nervously, "because there was actually a number of refugee centres, evacuation points and quarantine zones set up before the bombin' - we have a list of them, detailin' positions and pick-ups and whatnot."

"A list?"

"Yeah, it was issued to all civil authorities during the first stages of the outbreak" -

- "A list is no use to us," Vivien snapped, her grip tightening on Rick's arm.

"A map thin' came with it," the driver said hastily, trying to appease her.

"Whoopedoo," Vivien said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"You know, when someone's trying to do you a favour, it's a courtesy to show some appreciation," Gorman said lazily, glancing over his shoulder at her, his gaze lingering too long on her face.

Vivien looked away, biting her tongue. "Thanks," she said stiffly to the driver, "for saving us back there."

"Don't mention it," the driver said genially, making Vivien feel slightly guilty. "We heard the gunshots - figured some poor bastard might need our help."

"Who pranged your vehicle?" Gorman asked, picking at his teeth again. "Saw the sick row of spikes."

"That was somebody else's vehicle," Vivien said with some difficulty, "our car crashed."

"What was with the row of spikes, then?" Gorman pressed.

"I don't know," Vivien flared up. "I don't know what the hell that was!"

Silence.

"What I'm more interested in is how you guys were gonna find this refugee centre in the first place," Gorman then said, his face mockingly thoughtful as a malicious light danced in his piggy eyes. "Were you gonna go in all guns blazing and bring the joint to its knees?"

"No, we weren't," Vivien spat, trying not to remember the bag of guns lost by the side of the road. "We thought there would probably be a military checkpoint set up outside the city, so we would hit that first" -

- "It's all gone, peaches," Gorman said, cutting across her, "all gone."

A silence fell.

"So what's with the English accent?" the driver then said to Vivien, trying to change the subject.

"She's my half-sister," Rick said before she could speak, "was on a family visit when this all went down. We all got split up - the last we heard of the others was that they were being evacuated to Atlanta. My wife and son - they're called Lori and Carl Grimes. Anyone going by those names at your hospital?"

"Sorry," the driver said with genuine sympathy, "there's no kids where we are, and no Lori either, only a Laura Dawson."

Rick exhaled sharply, bowing his head, Vivien grabbing his hand this time, knotting her fingers through his.

"You from King County Sheriff's Department, then?" the driver guessed, glancing at Rick in the mirror. "Can tell by the cowboy hat."

"Yeah, I was a deputy," Rick said darkly, glancing out of the window.

"We're Atlanta Police Department - or we were," the driver said with some difficulty, "I'm Captain Hanson and this is Officer Gorman," he finished, jerking his head at Gorman who didn't even bother to acknowledge them.

"I'm Rick," Rick said abruptly, "this is Vivien."

"Nice to meet you both," Hanson said, wincing slightly at his faux pas, "I mean, obviously it's not" -

- "For fuck's sake," Vivien hissed through her teeth. "That's Atlanta?"

For a moment they all stared at the ruined city looming up towards them on the horizon, the ravaged landscape silencing them all.

Then Gorman chuckled, instantly setting Vivien's teeth on edge. "Welcome to hell, honey," Gorman said with a sneer, "population dead."


End file.
